Is there a sweeter, cleaner joy than being right? Like, undeniably right? Omnipotently right? Right like that seer about the Ides of March? Like H.G. Wells about the bomb? Like Mariah Carey about Eminem?
No. No there is not.
Here are some recent times that I’ve been right:
When a colleague texted me two pictures. The first was of a glass of milk. The second was that same glass, drained. I am known in the office as a milk fiend, which is a weird thing to type but I feel no shame. I drink at least one, sometimes two full glasses a day. I’ve ordered it on many a date. This colleague, among others who sit by me, have expressed their revulsion. But they’re wrong. This text was his white flag, his foxhole confession. May everyone realize that milk is a treat.
When I flipped off a speeding car. And when I flipped off a second speeding car.
When [redacted] implied I was overreacting about the coronavirus.
When I watch old seasons of Project Runway and Heidi Klum announces who is “in” and who is “out.” I am right about 80 percent of the time. After just a few episodes, I’ve gotten really good at knowing what qualifies on the show as “fashion forward” despite not knowing what fashion forward means. For example, fashion forward is a structured collar but never a peplum. Fashion forward is silk, rarely chiffon, never cotton. Fashion forward is risk divorced from sensibility. Fashion forward is Anne Boleyn, not Jane Seymour. Fashion forward is what Kim K wishes she was and thinks she is. Fashion forward is apparently nothing that fits a size 8 and up. That is commercial.
When I thought a magenta lip would look good on me.
When I thought a nude lip would look bad on me.
When a woman in the park said loudly, snidely, so that I would overhear while I got out of my boyfriend’s car, that there is no parking allowed, even though she said this as she stood next to a sign that specified where parking is allowed.
When this woman turned to her friends and told them that parking wasn’t allowed and that some people were purposefully misreading the sign—the sign that said parking is allowed—to game the system but that she couldn’t imagine being one of those people. I tried to summon the grace of Mr. Rogers and Oprah but just waited until she was out of earshot to hiss “idiot” under my breath.
When I told a friend not to cut bangs.