Don't trust your butterfies (and other drafts)

Some half-formed thoughts from half-finished newsletters

Every Saturday morning, from 8 to at least 10, I sit down at my desk with a cup of coffee and write. Having the time penciled in on the calendar is part of my process, as I have always worked better with a little bit of structure. The rule is I don’t have to write anything spectacular. I just need to get some words down. It is a practice, after all!

Sometimes, I get into a good groove and bang out the week’s newsletter during that time without a lot of rewriting. Sometimes, I write on evenings after work (with a glass of wine instead of coffee) when something has sparked my interest during the week and I need to get it out as soon as humanly possible. In those cases, I use Saturday mornings for polish. (I call these the good times.)

But then there are times where I’ll put in the two hours and only come up with about 300 words on a random topic. Usually, when I realize this is what’s happening, I leave my desk, march into Ben’s office, and declare that I have absolutely nothing to write about and probably never will again. But eventually, with some coaxing, I sit back down at my desk with more coffee, good stuff comes out, and you all are none the wiser.

Thanks to this process, I have a pretty hefty list of drafts — half-formed thoughts that started out decent but then lost my interest as I dug into them. Or sometimes I start to work on a timely story, only to get distracted by something else, and then the moment passes. Whatever the reasoning, the piece gets abandoned, and since I was taught to never delete a draft, they are just sitting there, waiting to be picked up again.

So in lieu of a normal newsletter this week, I’m sharing a handful of these (lightly-edited) drafts. They’re the nuggets of newsletters I wish I’d written that will (hopefully) spark a little discussion that will grow into something worth writing about. And thus, the process continues.

Now, on to the takes!

---

Butterflies are Bullshit

If there is one romantic trope that I literally wish would be banished from our public consciousness, it is that of the butterfly in the stomach. It’s probably the first romantic indicator that we learn as kids — right alongside hearts that skip a beat (terrifying!) and feeling dizzy (concerning!) — that follows us around into adulthood. But in my experience, it’s the worst cliché of the bunch, because it has us believing that the fizzy feeling that bubbles within us when we are absolutely infatuated with a person is an indicator that we’re with our soulmate. But in my experience, do you know what those butterflies are actually indicating? Danger, girl!

Think about being on a rollercoaster, and the feeling you get in your stomach right before the first big drop. That flip-flopping isn’t an indication that you are in love with rollercoasters. It’s fear. It’s anxiety. It’s a biological response that is warning you that danger is around the corner and it’s time to get the hell out of whatever situation you’re in.

Every time I have experienced that heart-in-my-throat, butterflies-in-the-stomach, seeing-stars kind of sensation after a date, or a kiss, or even just a good phone call, what has followed has been some of the most exhausting and heart-wrenching love affairs of my life. I’ve lived through the sensation multiple times, and it wasn’t until my last big breakup that I realized what my body was trying to tell me. I was in fight or flight mode — not “you just met the love of your life” mode. My intuition was screaming at me, and instead of listening to it, I was telling it to shut up because I was looking into some dumb guy’s eyes, believing he was my soulmate. Yikes!

So then what does love feel like? For me, it was a similar feeling to gently lowering myself into a warm bath. Or slipping into your bed — fresh sheets and all — after a really long, exhausting day. It was comforting, and easy, and without much drama, to be honest. But that doesn’t make for a good story, does it? So I understand why writers invented butterflies. That doesn’t mean you have to believe them.

The Be-All-End-All Ranking of Life’s Showers

On principal, I am a bath person. I do not need to hear about how you find that disgusting. In my opinion, there is no greater joy in life than sinking into a bath, balancing your laptop on the sink, and drinking wine while watching your favorite show. It’s the best way to spend your time, and I will not be debating that point!

However, I live in New York City, land of the shallow basins, so I shower out of necessity. But not all showers are created equal. You usually have to get me a little drunk to hear me blather on about my shower rankings, but here they are* in descending order:

1. A post-beach shower, especially after visiting the Rockaways and sitting on the A train for an hour.

2. A shower that you take early enough before a night out that you can take your time and enjoy a glass of wine balanced on the soap dish.

3. A shower after an insanely tough workout, or a long bike ride, or anything that makes you sweat so profusely that you think you will never feel cool again, until you step into an icy shower, suds up, and return to your state of symbiosis. All is well.

4. The first shower you take in a hotel room after a long-haul flight where you test out all of the mini bottles of body wash and finish wrapped in a terrycloth robe and a room service mimosa.

5. A shower you take when you’re hungover, or sad, or just generally feeling gross. You turn up the hot water, plop down on the floor, and wrap your arms around yourself like you’re in a Fiona Apple video circa 1998.

* If the shower in question takes place in an outdoor shower, it immediately leaps to the top of the heap. Those are the rules!!!

I Am So Fucking Sick Of Restaurant Culture!!!

For its tenth “Yesteryear” issue, New York Magazine dug into the history of the New York City restaurant. It was, and I’m not being facetious, the best thing I have ever read. I literally could spend an entire year flipping through stories about the star-filled tables at Elaine’s and Mark Twain’s glutinous birthday at Delmonico’s. Part of the reason I’ve stuck around New York for so long are the restaurants. I haven’t been a club kid since college, but I will always be willing to plop down a ton of cash for a good meal surrounded my contemporaries at a raging spot to eat.

I was reminded of this a few weeks ago, when some friends and I got together at Jean’s in NoHo. All four of us work in media, and we were totally shocked to see half of our industry sitting at the tables around us. A PR friend we all knew came over to chat as we dug into our seafood tower, and we drank martinis and laughed through dessert.

When I brought up the fact that I’d eaten there with a few acquaintances later that week, I was asked the same question over and over again: “Is it worth the hype?” This question is so enraging to me, because it literally exemplifies everything that is wrong with current restaurant culture. Who cares about the hype? Why are we so concerned with whether a restaurant lives up to one? What ever happened to just going to a restaurant and trying it yourself?!

Jean’s was cute, at the very least!

I hate how much we dissect restaurants now — the food, the ambiance, the scene. I know this sounds counter-intuitive, because I just extolled the virtue of legendary restaurants of the past. But the way restaurant culture has evolved seems so much more nefarious now. As my future father-in-law loves to say, you didn’t go to Elaine’s for the food. You went for the vibes! You went to see what was up! You went to potentially see Norman Mailer!

But more than that, the hype has made it impossible to go out to eat in this city unless you make plans weeks in advance. It’s so maddening. I remember being able to waltz into a restaurant — a good restaurant — at 7 PM, get quoted a half hour, and be eating by 7:45. The other day in Greenpoint, Ben and I left a friend’s art talk around 6:30 and stopped into multiple restaurants before we were able to get a table. And I’m not talking high-on-the-Infatuation’s-hit-list restaurants. I’m talking smaller spots that seem poised for that walk-in crowd. What ever happened to the walk-in restaurant?! Are they officially dead in New York?

We eventually wound up at a delicious French restaurant that I will be gatekeeping the name of, lest I lose one of the only remaining walk-in restaurants in North Brooklyn. And I won’t apologize for that!! Bring back gatekeeping!!

Is There A Socially Acceptable Way To Say “No” To Plans?

Well, is there?