There is a 25-minute wait before the rotisserie chickens are done.

Her husband is in grad school for screenwriting.

The avocados are no longer on sale.

She took a BuzzFeed quiz that correctly guessed her age.

There are no container tops at the salad bar.

She forgot to take her Celexa but remembered to take her stool softeners.

Something Trump-related, probably.

The guilt about buying pre-made food instead of making a hearty, home-cooked meal is getting to her.

She’s worrying about Richard Simmons.

Even if she made up her mind to make a hearty, home-cooked meal, she would have no idea how to go about it.

She’s trying to break into the kid-lit industry.

She’s now imagined making a hearty, home-cooked meal and her children summarily rejecting it, so she’s full of resentment.

She’s starting to doubt that she ever was “cool.”

She’s been at her marketing job for three years and still doesn’t really know what A/B testing is but it’s too late to admit it at this point.

Health insurance is complicated. Who knew?

She keeps unsubscribing to Carter’s emails, but they keep sending them to her, and it’s starting to feel personal.

She can’t recall the difference between further and farther.

She misread the price of the organic, vegetable-based food dye, and it’s $13.99, not $3.99.

She’s realizing that she may never, ever get to that webcomic idea.

She’s trapped in a middle-class prison of her own creation.