Big week for people born in 1991
Scattered journals, November 2025
Wednesday, 11/5/25
Set my alarm for the first time in a while. 5 AM. Every week, I have the same revelation (i.e., breakdown) that my entire life would improve if I committed to working out in the morning. I HAVE WORKED OUT IN THE MORNING MOST OF MY ADULT LIFE BUT WHEN YOU’RE GETTING UP 100x/NIGHT WITH A BABY, SLEEP WINS.
That extra hour of sleep, I’ve realized, cannot compare to endorphins for me. So I nursed the baby, got her back down, and was on the treadmill for 5:45. Quick two miles, light stretching. Easy today. My local Planet Fitness is busy around the clock; the morning crowd is very blue lives matter (one guy’s shirt had TACTICAL SHERIFF emblazoned across the back) but it’s chill. I am confident in my ability to establish and maintain a routine. Maybe one of those patriots can help me with pull-ups.
Before I even got out of bed, I checked the NYC mayoral election results. At just 34 years old, Zohran Mamdani has been crowned King of New York. I, also 34, spent last night soaking my $8 Wet brush in salon-grade cleaning solution. Sobering parallel. I’m just glad to see him putting some respect on the great year of 1991. He’s setting a new moral standard for nepo babies everywhere! And one more reason to consider moving to New York. I have a few that I suppress regularly. Inside of you, there are two wolves or whatever.
I like that it’s not cringe to be excited about an election in a city that is not your own. At least I’m declaring it not cringe. I’m wary of all politicians and I do get flashes of that hard, shiny plastic Obama veneer, but I trust Mamdani. He feels like a tender-hearted anomaly. I think he’ll leverage his vibe to get shit done versus Obama who kinda leaned on extemporaneity and cutesy playlists to hide that he was establishment.
Broke a personal rule at work today. I found myself in the elevator heading to lunch at the same time as an old teammate. She’s cool. Fine catch-up. But when we got to the cafe on the 43rd floor—long ride!—she went to the salad bar, and to avoid dragging the conversation on any longer, I SACRIFICED MY BIG SALAD FOR A CUP OF CHORIZO AND WHITE BEAN SOUP.
There were no real consequences of this decision. The soup was $3.35 versus my $9 salad, so I saved money. It was delicious, veggie-forward. Plus, my team was doing an early dinner out, so I wouldn’t starve. But I am generally against avoiding situations that elicit social awkwardness. I am not an awkward person. I make people comfortable. That is one thing I like about myself! The first time my husband’s boss met me, he texted him afterward, “Dia’s so easy to talk to.” And I don’t NEED to talk, you know? I don’t need to fill the silence in these moments. But I can always feel when someone else does, and when it’s deeply uncomfortable for them, and so I sometimes have to beeline for the soup.
Monday, 11/3/25
Unwinding from a tough Monday, watching the Knicks cream the Wizards. I keep checking the Sleeper app. As if I need another app to check! Sleeper has that ADHD-inducing interface that caters to the Zynhead DraftKings RedZone jaw-clenching archetype we all know and love, which accounts for at least 60% of Philly’s male population.
Fantasy basketball has changed how I watch games for the worse. Obviously I’m rooting for New York, but I’d like Alex Sarr to play with my success in mind. Team BAE GORGEOUS-ALEXANDER for the win. This is my first time joining a league. I had first pick in the draft. I tried to be clever and think about what teams have big injuries and thus players who’ll get unusually high minutes; standout rookies; that kind of shit. It’s not going great. But the season is young and my moment is simmering!
Blow-dried my hair at halftime. This is something I do consistently now. I have been an “arrive dripping and air dry” girl my entire life, but my colorist said blow-drying locks in the blonde. Feels like a scam to wreck your hair and require never-ending professional upkeep, like how the food and pharmaceutical industries keep us sick. I believe her, though. The color looks 10 shades brighter when I blow it dry. I let it air dry about halfway, then warm up some batana oil in my hands and work it through midway to the ends and blow it dry, alternating between my Wet brush and Denman. I am batana-pilled. The smell is delicious. It’s not heavy. Really good, cheap natural hair care product. There’s a lot of fear mongering that comes with going blonde. Everyone’s like “mmmm good luck…” My hair feels healthy as ever; maybe I’ll be singing a different tune in a year or two.
There’s no one way to be a woman. I identify as a woman but spiritually I am a genderless entity. I think most of us are. I might’ve talked about this on my friend’s podcast like a year ago. I was pregnant and she was maybe five or six months into transition and so we were riffing on gender. The mundane duality of blow-drying your hair at halftime… I like it.
Sunday, 11/2/25
I have broken my own heart. Of course, being a drama queen renders most of what I say useless theater, but I’m for real this time. I am down bad in a new and unexpected way that has rearranged the letters in the chemical compounds that power my brain. Expressions of sympathy can be directed to my Venmo.
Now, before I crawl toward an explanation, I want to capitalize on my softened spirit and share with you a few recipes that helped ease the pain this weekend. (I’m just being gratuitously cryptic now lol.)
I made this lentil dal recipe and this naan recipe for dinner last night (second time in a month). Cook the dal in a Dutch oven for max coziness. It’s enough to feed a large family and freezes delightfully. I want to make it for my friends soon.
Then this morning, I made the loveliest oats: pulse a half cup of dry rolled oats in a food processor or blender until fine; this gives it a more grits-like, Cream of Wheat texture, which I love. Cook on the stove over low-medium heat with a cup of water. Always cook oats on the stove to encourage delayed gratification, the simple pleasure of paying attention to something you could easily pop in the microwave but chose not to. Add a tsp or so of maple syrup, cinnamon and cardamom to your heart’s content, and a pad of good butter. Top with a generous pinch of flaky salt and something crunchy, like pecans or granola if you, like me, don’t mind the idea of oats on oats.
It’s worth noting that I’ve been down an Ayurveda rabbit hole. This is not the first time. I suspect I have a vata-pitta dosha, heavier on the vata, which suggests I eat warm, mushy foods with warm spices like ginger and coriander. Whenever I honor that hunch, I am affirmed.
The oats were especially comforting. I ate them on the couch with my husband who also enjoyed a bowl, and our baby wiggled between us and we did the crossword and drank coffee. What I’m saying is I’ve made it in life. Andrew has a 1,087-day NYT crossword streak and almost a year on Duolingo. When we first met, he had meditated every day for an entire year and read 70 books that year, too. Type of person who really makes you consider your weak excuses for barriers to good habits.
Anyway, Saturday felt like Sunday which always makes actual Sunday feel enormous and sweet. I needed that. This is a meditation on needs, I realize—the reconciliations inherent to the process of meeting our own.