I find it hard to write when things are good.
When you can smell the mangoes as you pass the cart on 81st and the Euros start, so your football friends crawl out of the eaves in your Whatsapp messages, and the whole city shows off its clavicles and corner seating while gathering for sparkling orange drinks served with a side of olives.
When things are good, I want to play outside, not stare at a blinking cursor mocking my uncharacteristic Sans Serif reticence.
But according to every runfluencer—“hard things are the only ones worth doing,”—so here I sit memorializing the thought trails that I’ve found *especially* fun recently:
I love fonts. I’m one of the 10 people in the world that names Helvetica their favorite documentary, and I believe that most moods can be described by a typeface.
For years, I dressed in bold. Sometimes Windings, sometimes Calibri, other times something Serif with a crisp white button down, but always in CAPSLOCK.
Recently this has changed. I don't know whether as a product of moving to the Upper West Side or simply a stage of life or seasonal shift, but lately I've been lowercase dressing. Sometimes in italics.
No one would ever accuse me of being a “minimalist” and “understated” has never found a place in my closet, but my uniform of sequins paired with ruffles and gogo boots has been in hibernation as I’ve instead reached for curiosities and baubles to dress up linen tops and blue jeans (a formerly derogatory phrase in my style vocabulary).
My mother’s collection of silk scarves, which once felt costume-y, have molded into an extension of my self. A Burberry neck scarf I used to think was too mature for my Bowie-esque wardrobe, has become a signature in my wardrobe and a colorful striped skinny scarf feels all too natural to throw over my shoulders and have cascade down my back in favor of accentuating my collarbones—a physical feature I personally believe lives at the intersection of sexy and elegant.
My best friend Ellie and I decided that “Now, pop your clavicle” is the new “Say cheese."
“Lowercase dressing” doesn’t discredit the intentionality that goes into an outfit, but rather prioritizes the ease of wearing it. It lets the look be thoughtful rather than thought-filled.
More of a “choose your fighter” from the Sequins and Ruffles arsenal, rather than an engagement of the entire battalion. Not “everything all at once,” but “some things, well tailored, and seasoned with a scarf, collar, or clip.” Delicate and breezy while still being grammatically correct.
The same has applied to recent kitchen adventures. In the winter I want to Uppercase Cook. To Braise. To Roast, To Bake. In the summer I want to sear, to mix, to dip, to pair, and to plate. This isn't to say that it’s easier. Often more thought and skill goes into making fresh things feel fancy and fun, but it's still lowercase. Somehow flirty in the same way a white sundress with strappy sandals and a big brooch is.
In my last newsletter, I wrote about how supper clubs are replacing swipe culture. Since then, I hosted my first matchmaking SOIRÉE with Matchbox, a software that uses relationship science to pair you with your most compatible match at any event.
The 40 person Italian Riviera themed picnic in Central Park was such a hit that we’re hosting another Matchbox SOIRÉE next week, and this one is Roaring 20s themed!
The success of the event was also emblematic of major dating app fatigue (check out Ava’s newsletter deep dive!). Every third girls night conversation features some rendition of “I am so tired of swiping.” “Why should I be responding to strangers when I can't even respond to my friends?” “My screentime is already so high!” “99 out of every 100 first dates feels like a waste of time and a one woman show.” “Are these app boys actually making me laugh or do I just like being amused?”
If we are witnessing the end of dating apps (Angelcake said so in their Summer SOTU, so it must be true) then where does that leave us? What's the new Meet Cute Medium of choice?
As a Fellow Single (non-derogatory), I am by no means an expert, but in my humble opinion, community events like reading parties, journaling clubs, dinner parties, and matchmaking soirées are going to be the solution. If you’re in NYC we hope to see you at the next one on June 26! And if you’re not, join the waitlist here and let us know which city to host in next!
This is my motion for the word “cliche” to stop being derogatory.
The definition of cliche is “overused, implies a lack of original thought,” and my response to that is…so!?
Not everything can or has to be staggeringly novel. When you’ve had the same thought as hundreds before you, why is that lack of something and not a bonding human experience? Things that are cheesy, mainstream, cliche, “basic” are so named for a reason. People like them, think them, say them, etc. In other words, they are popular, and isn’t it cool that you and that girl that you just became best friends with in the bar bathroom both said the same thing at the same time and are now connected by that if nothing else?
This feels like an extension of the (very anti-Barbie) rhetoric against things being “aesthetic.” Who declared that an urge towards prettiness is a bad thing? Plating something nicely so that the phone can feast first, curating your clutter so that it complies with the Clutter Corner trend. Aesthetics are so named because enough people have resonated with them. Are they often taken too far? Yes. “Mob Wife” was objectively weird and “Eclectic Grandpa” sounded like an AI-generated film title, but justice for the Coastal Grandmother girlies who just want to romanticize their big sun protection hats, Nancy Meyers sofas, mason jar hydrangeas, and corn on the cob in peace!
I turned 28 last week and for the first time, I didn't cry on my birthday.
Yes, it was a happy birthday filled with friends, food, sunshine, and dancing, but more than the activities themselves, for once I found myself shockingly content.
Sure, there are still things that I want (a boyfriend, my spine to self correct for long enough to run a marathon, a new carpet, to get over my fear of failure, for SOIRÉE to really take off (likecommentsharesubscribe and I’ll love you forever!), to publish a book, world peace, etc.) but those are all regular life things. For the first time I don't feel like I'm actively in fight or flight mode—building an engine and a net while the plane is going down.
I may not have fallen in love yet, but I’ve got to love being in love with the kind of pinch me friends I never even dreamed of having for all these years. And I’ve finally let go of any Tumblr preconceptions that moodiness, edginess, and nonchalance are cool in any way, shape, or form. Caring about things is fun. Liking things is fun. Being easily amused and excitable are admirable qualities, not immature ones. Like Caroline Cala Donofrio says, “Negativity doesn’t pay more in rent.”
The Mental Illness Olympics of who’s sadder than whom in Doc Martens had its time, place, and grippy sock holidays, but feeling the breadth of human emotions without tripping into the extremes is pretty damn cool.
Being content and spreading joy just because is enough. Talking to the stranger at the restaurant is sometimes as nourishing as the meal itself (Angelina has a great story about this!). Be boring. Be fun. Be playful. Be interested. Be sticky. Be sweaty. Be content. Have fun!
