Good morning superstars,
Quick housekeeping—hi rebrand! I’ve been experimenting with different ways to get myself to write more, and the only way I think I can do that is by opening my diary. Well, kind of. I want to talk about my week, every week, so today is my first day on the job.
Two weeks ago, my mom departed after her 10-day Mother’s Day trip to the city, and I’m just now recovering. It was a week and a half of drinking Aperol Spritz like it was water, engaging deeply with every stranger we came in contact with, and obsessing over the recent Summer House drama of West and Amanda (I need everyone to know that I was at the infamous Yankees game). I got a real job while she was here, and we accidentally gave Emily Rose FOMO. One for the books!
Despite my exhaustion, I’m proud of the itinerary I created for her visit—chic restaurants, good shopping, and lots of art. Out of all our activities, though, I have one must-do recommendation: Official Ritual in Greenwich Village for a sound bath; the no-phone policy and serene vibe of the 200-year-old house where the studio is located make it an oasis amid the surrounding skyscrapers. It’s the only place I’ve been in Manhattan so far where the city doesn’t seem to exist. Life-changing.
With my mom on her way home to Texas, I got back to my solo life, doing my best to catch up on sleep and recharge my social battery. Memorial Day Weekend felt like my version of a training scene from Rocky—except instead of running up stairs and chopping wood, I slept for more than 12 hours three days in a row and lay in the sun a little. Also, my water intake was nothing if not ideal. Claps for JK. I washed my duvet, and even though I haven't reassembled it yet, it’s clean and stain-free. I removed Instagram from my phone to detox for the weekend, and, as always, I forgot just how much a break from social media can do for me. It always feels like a rendition of My Year of Rest and Relaxation, only if Ottessa Moshfegh wrote an abridged version for basic bitches.
Inspired by my rejuvenating staycation, I chose to get my life together on Monday—partly by scheduling my first annual gynecological exam in 3 years and ordering bloodwork I’d put off for 3 months. I found my doctor on Reddit, a partner whose practice is in the Financial District, an area I feel complete indifference toward. When I stepped off the elevator, there was a long line of female patients at the front desk, waiting on the visibly overwhelmed receptionist, a woman whose talents did not include multitasking. She moved unsuredly between multiple monitors, typing into several different programs and logs. Payments were taking forever to load, and she was the only one to assemble each lady’s piss jar. Oh, and it was 4:30 pm. My heart goes out to her.
When I was finally checked in and up next for my appointment, a nurse named Diamond called my name and took me back to triage. After recording my blood pressure and getting my metrics, she took me back even further to wait for the doctor to come in. You’ve been to the doctor, you get it. I felt all the little hairs on my body stand up straight when Diamond instructed me to strip and put on the medical gown open to the front. Nakedness has never been easy for me; although my discomfort has dissipated over the years, my recurring nightmare of showing up to school/work/my Taekwondo class revisits me every now and again. Monday felt different, though. For the first time in my life, I felt comforted rather than ashamed by my pubic hair—I’ve felt like a sidekick to womanhood, some form of purgatory between that and girlhood. But I felt like a woman sitting on the edge of the wax paper in that medical gown, open to the front. I argued with the doctor whom I’d seen with my eyes for the first time 2 seconds prior, over the semi-regular cigarettes I enjoy whenever I’ve got a little buzz going. Of course, I lost the argument.
The Knicks punched their ticket to the NBA Finals on Tuesday night, something my roommates and I were hoping to witness at the bar on the corner of our block. Originally, in the early days of our lease, Emily Rose was underwhelmed by the charm she felt the place had. I hadn’t considered the space at first, but I quickly agreed. Anywhere whose layout immediately draws the eye to a 120-inch flat-screen television is not going to be my first choice for a third-space outing. However, in the second half of my mother’s trip, when she stayed with me in Brooklyn, she kept talking up the bar, talking about how fun and social everyone seemed, and how cute the shockingly abundant outdoor seating was. To watch the game, we decided to take a chance on hanging out at the bar. The outcome was abysmal. When we walked in, the bodies that surrounded us were statuesque, frozen in their barely social body language. All eyes were on us; there was no clear path to the bar, and it was so quiet you could hear every word from the commentators. The Knicks were up 30 points, and it felt like we walked in on this establishment’s rendition of the Mannequin Challenge. We were one iPhone flash away from that goddamn 2016 trend. Clearly unwanted and feeling socially threatened, we decided to leave the bar. A man who should have been embarrassed by himself hissed a condescending, somehow threatening “go Knicks” (imagine that as you please) at Emily Rose as we slowly crept out of the bar, doing our best not to make any sudden movements. Bizarre.
We changed gears and walked down the street to Sonny’s Corner, a relatively new bar whose energy is enough to seduce anyone at its threshold. It just looks like a place where hot people hide behind its tinted windows. We remained resilient, walking in with our heads high and shoulders back, entering slowly and allowing the room to decide whether or not we were going to make the cut. The bar's bubbly atmosphere continued even with our presence, god bless. At the end of the bar, there was the perfect amount of room for all three of us to gather, and one barstool, so that Emily Rose wasn’t worried about hindering anyone’s view. I ordered a Jack & Coke, Alina a Modelo, and Emily Rose whatever the bartender suggested after learning there was no Stella on draft. We finished our drinks and left before the game was over, which was fine because the Knicks had already won. On the walk home from Sonny’s I fished around for my pack of Yellow American Spirits, remembering that I left them behind in my bedside drawer. Irritated, I imagined my gyno’s maniacal laughter filling those linoleum hallways, claiming victory over my psyche for the night. Well played, M.D., well played.
Thursday night, I walked back and forth to my writing class in Williamsburg, the weather perfect for a tank top, jeans, and my New Balances. I feel practical in my supportive sneakers, like someone who woke up at 6 am or has a badge to swipe into their tech job. Shoes that fuck up your feet are unfortunately chic, but not as chic as peace of mind and getting my steps in. I battle the whole leaving-the-house thing every single day, and when it comes to technically optional activities? It’s over. So, as I slowly open myself up to new opportunities and become more social, anything that eases the friction between me and my front door is permitted. Functionality is paramount. Another addition to the start-up-ification of my wardrobe: I’ve grown fond of tying a cashmere J.Crew sweater around my hips, a way to add a little movement to an outfit weighed down by my clunky sneakers. I like it with flats too.
On Friday afternoon, I took a long walk through McCarren Park and enjoyed a traditional bahn mi (mild) and crispy Diet Coke from Bahnmigos on Norman Ave. I saw Elsie Hewitt out on a walk with her newborn baby, an absolute angel, pushing her daughter’s stroller with one hand and facetiming with the other. She was musing with someone over just how chunky her baby girl is. It was amazing how good she looked; the light twinkling through the leafy trees struck her from every angle, creating the illusion that her glow was radiating directly from her skin. As witness, it felt like this:
In the middle of the same walk, I sat on a bench directly in the sun, trying to chip away at my pastiness from the longest winter I’ve ever endured (the years I spent in Wisconsin were nothing). A man with the most upright posture I’ve ever witnessed passed me by twice, with a little less than twenty minutes between sightings. I never saw his face, but he was tan and visibly muscular, his shoulders pinned back as if a coat hanger were stuck in the shirt he wasn’t wearing. His hair was dirty blonde with plenty of shag hanging out the bottom of his adjustable trucker hat. I waited 20 more minutes to see if he’d make another lap. He never did. I walked home to remove the ghastly pimple patch on my forehead that was beginning to resemble a milky white third eye.
This week has left me hopeful and happy. I feel light on my feet, waltzing through the streets of Greenpoint like girl who’s going to be okay. I feel like I’m very familiar with where my weaknesses lie and how I interact with them. Things that would’ve sent me into orbit in the past now make me laugh, and I thank god I’m not blindly impulsive at the moment. But I’m still a little nervous. A part of me feels restless and untethered, as there’s a sense of impending doom living with me at all times, perhaps the territory that comes with being 24. In such a transitive state, getting comfortable in destructive habits is so attractive because you can kind of manufacture a predictable future. I’ve been struggling to accept that things are really great right now and that I’m falling in love with myself (yuck). If you’re psychoanalyzing me, you’ll recognize this as future tripping. If you’re my mom, you’ll text me back this Bob Newhart sketch. And if you’re Carrie Bradshaw, you’d probably take this opportunity to tell me that Big is moving to Paris.
Anyway, feeling like a #superstar. Cheers to a great week <3
p.s. You have to see the shoes I got two weeks ago:
And this photo of Wrigley wearing a cone:
Don’t ever stop writing, Julia Kay.