You have Bewitched Me...Body and Soul

Bridgerton Brat Summer

I’m stomping (more so waddling) in cowboy boots surrounded by the blue and purple tones of hydrangeas and the impassable spirit of wrinkled botox skin and Golden Goose of the Hamptons; so, sometimes nightmares do come true. See I’m going to a music festival (shoutout to Gemma): the vacuum of space where cowboy boots thrive; where the southern boots symbolizing the pioneering spirit of the land of free are celebrated, encouraged, and cherished. I had not realized, however, that the festival would be preceded by a quick visit to the Golden Pear and Sant Ambroeus in Southampton. So now I’m wearing red cowboy boots and a mini With Jéan dress. And I’m getting some weird looks and a lot of judgemental ones. Oops. My chicken salad and iced tea were scrumptious…Swedish House Mafia here we come.

I’m convinced I will never drive again and I think my friends are perfectly okay with that reality - mostly for their own safety and sanctity (and probably mine too). I don’t plan on purchasing a car (not in this economy of bagel boom and strawberry shrub) plus I won’t be living anywhere else, bury me in Williamsburg, throw my ashes into the East River, but god be my witness, I beg of thee…never let me move. My bangs have finally found a state of equilibrium but naturally, this heat keeps them on their fringes; you kick the spur ridge of your cowboy boots and recenter them on the plastic shoe rack, we’re wearing them you think as we pinch the arch of the pullstrap. I’ve reached that point where I’m watching so much Bridgerton that I’ve started speaking in iambic pentameter, your grace. All is fair in love and war. But my reality couldn’t be further from the glories of 19th-century London society ton. It’s Friday. As you wipe the sweat from your brow, you smell the warmth of the gym’s towels caramel and curdling milk stench. You remember the last time you had to hold it together; I’m not sure I can keep a straight face next time the strawberry blonde in the stream room starts sobbing. What is going on? Thankfully, right after I showered, I got an email that the hot water had been turned off. You might think this to be a blessing which undoubtedly, it was; until I gave into the intrusivity of a thought spiral.

“Well, why was it turned off?” I wonder. I guess I did smell methane in the water, ignoring it as I washed my face…you wonder was the water full of poision????

Rebecca got bird pooped on and Emma W. was confronted with the unbearable flirting type on the 1, all the way from 23rd to chambers street. If only she could use her fan to catapult him into the windstream of the Henry Hudson. Everyone is on Substack and Cava might not be worth the stench of its garlic and tahini after-burps. Brat Summer is here. Please, Please, Please….360. Please, you’ve got to try the cream cheese bagel with heirloom tomato from Applo. Our apartment is colder than I can afford and you wonder what will the record-high temperature be in August 2050; do we really want to know? At the very least, I hope my neighbors know I have OCD otherwise they must think I have Alzheimer’s given the number of times I check my door is locked. My pantry consists of two tampons, two teriyaki seaweed packets, and more truffle oil packets than I will ever make use of, a thoughtful housewarming present from Alfred. I’m wearing Jack Roger’s because it matches my outfit even though I have abhorred tourists for wearing open-toed shoes more times than I’ve experienced sexism. It’s intern season and don’t we know it? He stands facing the subway window, basking in his unruly reflection so closely and so vainly that he’s practically licking the sticky glass. New Balance.

I’ve noticed a surge in Turkish coffee establishments; couples fighting in public is immeasurably entertaining. I’m 72% sure our soul mates sport Public Records. One day, someone will tell you “have bewitched them, body and soul.” James Taylor fades into your headphones, I’ve seen fire and rain. Instrumental orchestra music brings me to tears and sometimes I feel so overly confident in comfort on the subway, that I’ll think I was just talking to someone, the moment passes, I turn my head and no one is there. Ah, yes, the omniscient reminder of being single. It’s lonely in your absent accompaniment - apart from the crescendo of the violin whispering in your ears. A drenched man walks onto the cart, and no one flinches at the unknown substance. Behind every J there is an M and the cadence of New York fills your soul, you are bewitched. Practical Magic. You reflect on the trajectory of past dates - you realize it is like your career choices, you’ll find that if you become unconsciously passive to it, lacking intention, you might look back with remorse, confusion, dread, regret, or perhaps content if you choose to be thoughtful, rather than blinded by loneliness and doom scrolling. But thankfully, you forget your train of thought as you brush your teeth as matcha residue drips onto the sink, you wash it away, splashing the faucet water with your hand, holding your toothbrush in one hand, bag on your shoulder, as you wander around the apartment, you remember you are alive and breathing. Even when we are still, our cells are vibrating, moving. Photosynthesis. Even when we forget to breathe, we breathe. Even when the yoga teacher sounds like the founder of Erewhon, we mask OUR incessantly increasing irritancy with a smile. Nauseous. Damn those supplements! You see your Gertie’s crush on the street, this time in unchartered territory, no cutlery or coloring pencils in sight. He says “Oh hey!” and you pretend not to hear him. Fuck! Now you’re on Delancy, the delivery biker audibly gasps at the neon green Ferrari as it passes the intersection to Bowery, you notice the blinding green color matches the exact tone of his electric bike’s frame, branded “getwhizzzzz.” A slim man in workout gear approaches, “please no” you mutter under your breath.

“Hey you’re really wow…wow…ughh…your eyes are….”

“I have a boyfriend” I word vomit. Olivia, you liar!

“Oh, you do?”

I walk away. How dare he question me! Yes, your grace, perhaps I do! This is why we can’t have nice things. To know nothing at all and everything at once.

A week passes. My mom’s watching Napoleon Dynamite on an iPad to my right, and the stranger to my right is watching a podcast, men, right? Watching a filmed podcast? I’m feeling the discomfort of eating too much papaya at breakfast, seated in the middle seat as a reward…and so is life! For the duration of the flight, the girl sitting diagonally in front of me has been editing three different birthday posts on Instagram, utilizing the app’s rolodex of shapes, fonts, and coloring tools; she’s been adding text, swirls, and shapes for more than four hours. As a guilty proponent of the mundane, time-consuming task myself, I wonder…have I been doing it all wrong? I’ve used similar rhetoric for such insta stories, “BB!!” and “this gal,” similarly adding the birthday number for age specificity; the viewership and subject of the post must be reminded! And yet…she’s editing with such an artful knack and precision to detail that is truly uncanny.

My mother-daughter six-day trip has just come to an end. We stayed at an infamous honeymoon spot, making our stay a nuanced abnormality for the hotel given the impassioned tides of young couples with their champagne toasts and itching codependency, a few mismatched pairings brought much entertainment through the please of people watching during the daily free breakfast buffet. Waffles, pancakes, and a donut? God, don’t you love the wonders of the male metabolism? One long iced tea and a grasshopper…the song of incompatibility sings on. But what do I know? Turbulence…why are they passing out orange juice now?

The most comically chaotic point of our trip was the (undisclosed) group safari jeep tour that had been recommended by the hotel; a warning, my mother has repeatedly told fellow vacationers since that the feelings it induced are comparable to what a “torture chamber” might exude. We were stuffed like sardines (hot and trendy btw - canned fish) in the back of the jeep pickup, with sideway facing foam seats, sitting perpendicular to the direction of the moving vehicle as we scaled the glorious albeit rock coast of Aruba, thus, a bit bumpy for open, sideways seating at 7:45 a.m. There was a family of four from Lancaster, PA (two young children god help us), and an older couple from Trenton - who by the way are sitting in the same row as us on our United return flight presently, the husband is wearing a Nemo Haiiwan shirt…such are the joys of coincidence- and my mom and me. Traveling internationally and finding mostly Americans in your midst is less sobering than revealing. The young daughter of the family was nauseous all morning, I watched as she slowly picked at her apple, ate would be hyperbole, more like licking it after each nibble. It came as no surprise to me that after moving up front next to the tour guide an hour into the drive she vomited as he explained the formation of dormant volcanic rock during a moment of pause atop the penultimate highest point of the island, the wind blowing perfectly in the direction of the driver’s seat simultaneously. “It’s always her…” the dad scolded as the wife agreed. My mom and I pursed our bottom lip downward, “how sad and awful” we both telepathically exchanged. “Oh…she couldn’t unbuckle from the complicated harness,” the brother noticed. We didn’t end up being able to explore the headliner of the tour, the swimming caves, instead, we drove to a set of continual coastal spots that were unanimously closed to swimmers due to high winds. At least we took pictures. The girl is still editing the birthday post.

Now we’re back in New York. And then the Hamptons. Tis a glass house, Darcy! Only become an actor if you can’t not! The firefighters in the Trader Joe’s shop in packs, together they will source ingredients for Sunday dinner - literally 12 of them - you spot bacon, eggs, cheese, linguine - Carbonara….Commodore Nachos keep me young and Fleetwood Mac pumps blood in my veins. If life’s a glass house, find the membrane. Eleanor Rigby. Happy Saturday fam <3