300-count Egyptian cotton sheet set: You’ve been an assistant editor for five years and it’s fine. You’re living your best life with three roommates in a two bedroom apartment in Queens.
A $250 donation to the couple’s honeymoon fund: You give unsolicited advice on where and where not to eat whenever anyone mentions they’re traveling anywhere. You’ve never been outside of the United States.
One set of silverware: You only have two chairs and a stationary bike in your living room. You chew with your mouth open, but compulsively correct people’s grammar on social media.
A one-time donation to the ASPCA: You foster fourteen cats and at least one of them is named Caty Purry.
A La Creuset dutch oven with matching tea kettle: You just went through a terrible divorce, but things are going great at work, plus it’s nice to have so much free time since your spouse won custody of the kids, so really everything’s good. No, seriously, you’re doing awesome.
A membership to a scotch of the month club: You have a bar inside a giant globe that you show everyone when they come over.
A certificate for a star chart reading: You’re a Reiki Master and run a meditation spa/make your own pizza workshop at Burning Man. You own six leather vests.
A set of steak knives: You regularly send food back at restaurants. You take better care of your handlebar mustache than you do your relationships.
A cradle: You’re over 65 and none of your kids are having kids. You still have an AOL email address and use way more emojis in texts than necessary.
A cast iron skillet: You have a YouTube channel dedicated to cooking meat out in the woods with nothing but a rock slab and a fire you build without matches. You were once the CEO of a major tech company.
A succulent subscription box: You dropped out of law school to start your own business as an interior designer. You have one client, and it’s your mother. You wish everyone “Happy birthday” on Facebook with a cactus emoji.
A gift certificate to a rock climbing gym: You run your girlfriend’s yoga-centric Instagram. You hate being called “outdoorsy.” You don’t understand anyone who doesn’t love green juice.
Ten Latin ballroom dance classes: You only drink single origin coffee because you went to South America once. Everyone you’ve ever dated has called you “spicy.”
A scented candle: You don’t usually buy gifts for people because it’s “a shallow gesture” and “promotes consumerism,” but your significant other doesn’t share your views.
A box of condoms: You almost died of alcohol poisoning twice in college. Now you’re an investment banker who’s been arrested twice for cocaine possession.
A copy of Infinite Jest and some weed gummies: You don’t own a computer. No one from college speaks to you anymore because of “the incident.” You’ve never owned a bed that was more than a mattress and a box spring.
A set of wine glasses: There’s not one house party you’ve been to where you haven’t broken or stained something. You’ve whispered curse words since you were sixteen and occasionally still write smiley faces in your O’s.
A perfectly restored vintage record player: You have a small cabin up in the Catskills where you go to “unplug” and “recharge.”
A Roomba: You reorganize friends’ bookshelves when they’re not looking. The smell of freshly opened Clorox wipes gets you a little too excited.
A painting of the couple you commissioned on Etsy: You don’t take criticism well. You planned the bride’s bachelorette party even though you’re not the Maid of Honor.
Sexy lingerie: You missed the bridal shower. You may have also tried on said lingerie and starred in your own amateur boudoir photo shoot.
A mezuzah: You converted to Judaism for your husband, but still put up a secret Christmas tree in the basement crawlspace.
An Instapot: You just had your first baby, and you wish everything would hurry up and slow down simultaneously.
A box of fresh Wyoming air: You recently watched Wedding Crashers and thought it looked like a fun way to spend a Saturday.