Things Everyone Does But Nobody Admits: A Confession in Several Parts
Let's be honest for a moment. Not polite honest. Not public-facing honest. The kind of honest that would ruin a first date. We all do strange, embarrassing, and borderline feral things in private—and then we collectively agree to never, ever mention them. Here's the unspoken catalog of human behavior. You've done these. I've done these. Denial is the final entry on the list.
Smelling your own armpits. You're reading this. You probably just checked. The human underarm is a curiosity, and you are its most dedicated investigator. Sometimes it's a hygiene audit. Sometimes it's a primal self-assessment. Always, it is done with the furtive glance of a spy handling classified documents. You've done it in an elevator after a brisk walk. You've done it mid-conversation, pretending to stretch. You are your own scratch-and-sniff sticker.
Rehearsing arguments in the shower. You've won a thousand imaginary fights under the spray. Every devastating comeback, every perfectly structured rebuttal, every verbal knockout delivered to someone who insulted you three days ago. The argument is long over. You lost it in real life. But in the shower, you are undefeated, eloquent, and slightly soapy. The shampoo bottle is your jury, and it finds in your favor.
Checking the fridge you just checked. Nothing has changed. It has been twelve seconds. The cheese hasn't multiplied. The leftovers haven't evolved into something more appealing. And yet you stand there, door open, refrigerator light illuminating your face like a disappointed moon, hoping the laws of physics and food have somehow bent in your favor. They haven't. You'll check again in five minutes.
Imagining your funeral. You've planned the guest list. You've curated the playlist. You've pictured who would cry and who would give a speech and who would show up just to make sure you're actually dead. This is not morbid. This is basic human narcissism dressed in black. We all want to know our exit strategy and our audience ratings.
Pretending to read a text to avoid a person. Head down. Thumb scrolling. Face arranged into an expression of mild concern. You're not reading anything. There is no message. Your phone is a shield and the sidewalk is your stage, and the acquaintance approaching from the opposite direction will never know you just performed a one-act play called "Busy and Important."
Googling your own symptoms and arriving at certain death. A mild cough becomes a rare pulmonary condition. A headache is definitely an aneurysm. You have diagnosed yourself with six terminal illnesses and one vitamin deficiency, all before the doctor's office opens. WebMD is not a medical resource. It's a horror novel that stars you.
Secretly Googling yourself. You want to know what the internet says about you. Nothing, usually. Maybe a LinkedIn profile from 2014. Maybe a mention in a newsletter. You are simultaneously disappointed and relieved. You tell yourself it was a professional audit. It was vanity, pure and simple.
Saying "just one more episode" and watching four. The negotiation is a lie. You were never watching one more. The remote is still on your stomach. The credits are rolling. "Next episode starts in 5 seconds." You don't move. You were always going to surrender.
There. We've said it. These are the minor sins of being human, committed daily, confessed never. Until now. You're welcome.
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