Me as a newborn. “Her butt is coming out first,” my mom’s ob-gyn told her six hours into her contractions. The day took an unexpected turn for my mother who had already spent the entire afternoon wondering whether she had diarrhea or was about to give birth. “This baby is just not the right fit.”

Corduroy pants from Madewell that look amazing on their models but stick to me like a wedgie. Each time, I masterfully take multiple mirror selfies and send them to all of my best friends from home. I hope one of them will tell me that it’s okay to pull a straight face as I hand the cashier my student ID from five years ago to get a minuscule discount on overpriced pants. But no, after much deliberation, one of them tells me: “It’s just not the right fit.”

The latest issue of The New Yorker that the mailperson couldn’t shove into my mailbox because I haven’t checked my mail in a month. Space is valuable in the city, the two-week July issue is just not the right fit for this corrugated metal case, and as much as I liked to believe that I was a true grown-up reading my New Yorker during my daily commute, turns out I’m not grown-up enough to talk to a subscription representative for a digital-only membership.

My 32nd pitch of the year. Well, I knew the moment I pressed “Send” that it was not the right fit. So, I decided not to bother the incredibly overworked and extremely underpaid editor who had already told me my previous work was good but just not the right fit. I composed a pithy rejection email and plugged in my address under “To.” “Hi,” I wrote, “Thank you for sending this over. It’s not the right fit for us right now.” I’ll be a good editor one day, I told myself with a pat on the back.

Me on March 2 when I attempted to take the C train for the last time. The doors opened at exactly 8:32 AM but the car in front of me was already packed. I tried to squeeze my way in but a young man with his red and blue Schwinn blocked the entrance. The people around him huffed and puffed, and a few stretched out their necks for some fresh air at the station that already smelled like pee, cologne, and routine. I cussed the man in a language he did not know. He whispered at me as the doors shut: Just. Not. The. Right. Fit.

My ex-boyfriend. I knew he was not the right fit after he told me I was a monster for dipping my fries in mayo but we kept on dating until he told me I was not the right fit.

The last bit of trash I punched into my bin. Oh boy, I see the plastic bag rip at its seams but a feminist once told me that I can do anything I set my mind to. It looks as if the world is not going to treat me the way I deserve today so I am not going to throw out the trash twice and tell the man working at the restaurant downstairs that I still don’t want him closer to me than six feet.

My poop-colored couch from Target. The movers took the L-shaped sofa apart into three pieces and somehow pushed it through my narrow hallway. “Ma’am, you’ll need to ask the city to come and take this couch out of your apartment when you’re moving out,” one of them said as he wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Call 3-1-1 and Sanitation will come pick it up. Otherwise, it’s just not the right fit.”

Office cubicles. Look, if you think going into office is the right fit for you, I will say read the room: because there is nobody in it.

Plagues. Some claim Covid-19 has existed since November, but I get the sense that our stance is “A plague is not a plague unless you acknowledge it.” So, now that the U.S. is defunding World Health Organization, it’s decided: The pandemic is just not the right fit for this country.

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