Airports are chaos factories, but nothing says “romance” like The Boy nearly doing the splits on an escalator at 4 a.m. while I cackled on my back and The Recluse pretended not to know us.

Every grocery trip is a low-budget Hunger Games, complete with squeaky-wheeled chariots, aisle blockers, and cart abandoners who treat the parking lot like a demolition derby.

My coping mechanism is snacks. Crackers, fruit, vegetables (but don’t you dare call them veggies). Basically, if life happens, I’m eating about it. Snacks are my love language. Fight me.