Listening to: “Should I Stay or Should I Go” by The Clash. One of my favorite pastimes is categorizing “perfect songs.” I made a passing reference to this flawless ditty in a piece I’m writing on marriage and now I can’t escape it. The simplicity of that question, “Should I stay or should I go?” is irresistible. Mick Jones spits his grievances in your face with all the gritty vulnerability of Will Hunting and Skylar. You know what I mean?
Drinking: Evolution Fresh cold pressed tangerine juice.
Thinking: About how C*VID has heightened our sense for illness, for better or for worse. Last week I went to a drag show with my friend Alli. My throat started hurting at the show, which I chalked up to screaming every two minutes for someone twirling nipple tassels to Mariah Carey. Five days later and I’m still sucking on Ricolas and drinking tea. The frustrating thing is… I feel fine. Great even, besides some crippling PMS. But because I’m coughing and visibly self-medicating, I’ve been asked to stay home from the office until I’m symptom-free. Fair enough.
I haven’t gotten a C*VID test yet, and I’m not sure I plan to. Is that irresponsible? Are we just supposed to assume every ail *could* be C*VID at this point and potentially expose ourselves to it in the process of visiting a clinic to find out? I’m definitely a “better safe than sorry” person, but I’m genuinely lost on how to handle sickness these days. I don’t think any of us want to live in pointless fear, racking up test bills to leave the house with a stuffy nose. But I also want to be considerate and do my part. (For the record, I am fully vaccinated, had C*VID already, and was exposed and tested negative a few weeks ago.)
On another note, it’s refreshing to challenge old conventions of productivity and health. Historically in my office, to stay home with a cold, I would be gossiped about *despite* being in extremely close quarters, in a school full of vulnerable children. It’s nice seeing attitudes shift. But I’m equally guilty of pushing myself too far. Like, I’ve had to hold back from exercising this week. How enlightening to realize what we expect of ourselves and each other, even when we’re run down.
Feeling: Comfortably settled. After a brief stint moving home to Danville with my parents, I finally decided to bring my stuff back to Philly. It was bittersweet seeing my little pink bedroom, hastily decorated in a fit of despair, vacant once again. Those shitty Marshall’s candles brought the beach to the country and me, I was hopeful. It was a longggg six months leading up to a breakup that I’ve yet to write about. That room was my respite. Now we’re chugging along, happily in repair, making space for my clothes and for honest communication. I’ll try to explain later, I promise.
Obsessed with: Haul culture. Last night I told my friend that I “need to do a Revolve haul.” This is interesting because 1.) I’ve never purchased a single item from Revolve in my life, and 2.) I’ve never done a “haul” in my life, unless you count half-off Wednesdays at the Danville Salvation Army. Yet the term, popularized by YouTube and Instagram Reels, somehow snuck into my lexicon. What constitutes a haul? Five items? Ten? Why are some hauls more acceptable than others? Does that depend on the brand’s environmental impact? What do hauls say about our society? Are we being mindful, purging our closets and replacing clothes with more intention? Or are we completely hypnotized by consumerism? I have so many questions.
It’s important that I tell you I’d like to do a haul of sorts. I would like to feel the private exhilaration of having many items en route that I might actually love. I literally do not know what that feels like. Maybe that’s an innocence to protect. Going through my clothes this week, I couldn’t believe the holes and stains. And yet I can, because I am a person of conflicting feelings toward materialism and therefore I have ratty tie-dyes that someone else wore first hanging next to a brand new Balenciaga silk skirt. My closet really illustrates the paradox of being alive.
Wanting: A new bedspread. If there’s one thing I’ve learned this year, it’s that my ability to relax is somehow dependent on color scheme and orderliness. We recently settled on a black palette for our bedroom. You want to hear the sad part? This decision was driven by the cover we just purchased for Mousse’s crate, which takes up 25% of the room. (Our Poodle son dictates everything.) Black on black on unfinished wood should help neutralize the current situation, which is actually so heinous it keeps me up at night. Just know that when Amazon describes sheets as “sage green,” they really mean “knock-off Tiffany blue.” Does anyone have sheets they adore that aren’t Brooklinen (they don’t have black)? Let me know!
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Wayfair has black bedding options. So does company store.