I make a lot of lists. And not just your, “Let’s jot down 12 – 392 items we need at Target” activity-specific type of lists. No, I may daily lists. I make lists on weekends. I make lists for my lists. When I don’t make my daily list, I feel weird. They’re not exactly necessary […]
One of the most bizarre things about losing someone close to you is that it simultaneously touches nothing and everything. Beautiful things may seem different after, but they’re still beautiful. Funny things are, horrifyingly, still funny. Joy is still out there, wrapping its fingers around all the same things it used to. When one of my best friends died suddenly in November 2017, I felt the weight of this idea instantly. Every time the grief bulldozed over me, there was also the realization that one day I would feel happy again.
When I was a sophomore in college, I logged off of all social media for a month. Looking back, I honestly struggle to figure out exactly how I managed this. Was I OK? Had my study abroad months filled with 1 euro beers and eating my first meal of the day at 3 p.m. driven me mad? Probably yes. But also, social media wasn’t necessary for me then — at least not in in the way it is for me now. Do I have to have Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter as someone who works in media? No, not technically. Would it make my job and life significantly harder without them? Yes. Still, though, going from college student who enjoyed social media to adult-with-a-job who needs social media presented the same problem: Very often, it all still made me feel bad.
Living in New York means (unless you are very rich) living small. Sure, there are exceptions — but in general, apartments are small, overpriced, and basically never include a washer/dryer in the unit. (Side note: If you are one of the people who does have a washer/dryer in your apartment, please never speak to me again.)
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been thinking about food.
These thoughts have ranged from your standard, “My God, is there anything better than a warm bread basket?” (no, obviously not) to more complicated notions, like the never-ending belief that an extra indulgent weekend of eating needed to result in diving into a diet on Monday — a constant game of addition and subtraction in my head. A ceaseless series of “if, then” negotiations in my brain regarding what I ate, and how much I ate, and how I would respond to all of those choices after.
After almost 25 years on earth, and probably more than 25 failed New Year’s (and mid-year’s and by-my-birthday) resolutions, I’ve come to the conclusion that while I love a good resolution, resolutions, at least in the classic sense, do not love me. I’ve made small ones, big ones, in-between ones, ones that I call something other than a resolution but are really just a resolution after all. You name it, and I’ve probably tried it. And then failed miserably.
If I had a dime for every minute I’ve spent searching for things on Amazon that I don’t need, I would probably still spend those dimes on things on Amazon that I don’t need.
When I was growing up, I never dreaded the summer ending. I never panicked about going back to school. I was obsessed with the idea of a built-in fresh start.
I always started my year with lists of how I was going to commit to being “better” — a concept that, at ages 12 – 18, was often limited to how other people perceived me. As I got older, the type of things I wanted to change or approve upon, of course, changed, but my desire to find a reason to be better and to begin again never went away. Time passed, I graduated high school, then college — but I never stopped looking for a reason to start over, even as it started to sink in that I was at an age where those built-in jumping off points weren’t there anymore. I gradually accepted that I had to make those points for myself. And then, in November 2017, my friend died. And I realized that, when you’re an adult, it’s not that the starting over milestones don’t exist, it’s that they’re just easier to ignore. T
Most of my followers know I read a lot of crime books, thrillers, and mysteries. But this wasn’t always the case, actually. A few years ago I realized that forcing myself to like books that were a certain kind of genre — full of a certain level of writing, or a specific type of elevated language — was a waste of my time. Reading is one of the greatest, most simple pleasures in life. It can lift you, pull you, drag you out of whatever anxiety, pain, worry you’re going through at the moment. Few things can do that in this world so instantly. No matter what you like to read, the act of reading itself, and the escape it offers is flat-out joyful. When you let go of any expectation of what you’re supposed to be reading, it’s even better.
I used to live alone in a studio apartment. And not a big, sprawling warehouse type studio from movies, where I’m just always roaming around in a giant button-down shirt and painting large canvases for no reason. No. If I had to describe it, it was like a one bedroom apartment had been Honey, I Shrunk The Kids-style zapped into a very miniature version of itself. And then zapped again. It was probably 300 square feet. But for me, it worked.