How long my boyfriend lasts.
The size of a Sweetgreen salad, but just the crouton/shrimp part.
An episode of “Minx.”
The massage I got last week.
The collagen levels in my skin.
Also in my lips. I know I can pay for this, but the price, unfortunately, does increase with inflation.
The number of seats on the Supreme Court.
The caffeine content of my cold brew. If I’m developing a dependence, Starbucks needs to keep up.
My Tinder matches.
The hours my body stays restfully asleep. Anything greater than two is excellent. Anything less than half an hour is expected.
My cryptocurrency investment. I respect the fact that it bravely fought inflation by losing half its value, but I really do wish I had those five thousand dollars back.
My understanding of how inflation works. Doesn’t it mean I’m supposed to have more money? I have six dollars. Last week, I had eight dollars. Something seems off.
My salary. It’s so annoying that women don’t get hit as hard by salary inflation as men.
The time between my matching with a guy on Hinge and my realization that he owns a Razor scooter (the honeymoon phase). If only it were a skateboard—that, I could work with.
The euphoria I feel when someone laughs at something I said that was super funny.
Or even average funny.
Anything but the temperature.
My energy levels.
My enthusiasm.
My willingness to get out of bed.
My ineffable joie de vivre.
My hope for the future.
The caffeine content in a green tea. (My doctor told me to nix the cold brew; there is no joy left.)
