I bought these books recently and love them. It is basically about a guy who hates people and wants to avoid human encounters at all costs. Many times, I can relate, especially when it comes to kids and helicopter moms at the playground. Or masses of people in the subway on a hot, sticky summer day in the city. Or super annoying voices and fake people. Here, I want to share a couple of tricks on how to avoid awkward encounters.
1. Do you have a mobile phone? Can you act like you have received an important call?
A. I have the latest iPhone, and I studied at the best school for actors in California for three years, under the tutelage of the great Arnold Schwarzenegger. I have trained my entire life for this moment.
B. Yes, and I once spoke to the clown who played in my son’s school theater who gave me tips.
C. I’m on a digital detox.
If you answered A or B, you have successfully avoided an awkward encounter. Well done. If you answered C, please proceed to the next question.
2. Are there other people at the bus stop? Can you pretend to know them?
A. Yes, there’s a small crowd, including a friendly looking woman with a pug. She’s wearing red glasses to boot, and I have doggy treats in my coat pocket.
B. There is a drunk man wielding a kitchen knife.
C. I am alone.
If you answered A or B, you have successfully avoided an awkward encounter. Well done. If you answered C, please proceed to the next question.
3. Are there any places to hide around the bus stop?
A. Yes, it has a covered shelter and advertising panels. I am a master of disguise and will simply maneuver behind the Chanel No. 5 ad, just on the other side of the annoying person.
B. There is a thin tree, the size of a pole. I could, in theory, stand behind it. My body would stick out, but it would block most of my face, removing any risk of eye contact.
C. There is nowhere to hide.
If you answered A or B, you have successfully avoided an awkward encounter. Well done. If you answered C, please proceed to the next question.
4. Can you run away?
A. I am a world-class athlete, vying for gold in the 200-meter dash at the next Olympics. I can turn and sprint so fast that the annoying person will never catch me.
B. I tore a ligament last week mowing the lawn. I can hobble, but it will cause permanent damage.
C. I have gout.
If you answered A or B, you have successfully avoided an awkward encounter. Well done. If you answered C, please proceed to the next question.
5. Do you have access to cyanide?
A. Rejoice: my trusted cyanide! I always keep a little vial, just in case. Because, if I’ve learned anything in life, it’s that you could bump into an annoying person at any moment.
B. No, but I can see a pretty big rock.
C. Nope. What is this?
If you answered A or B, you have successfully avoided an awkward encounter. Well done. If you answered C, then I’m afraid you will have to have an awkward encounter with the assholes.Good luck.
I moved so many times in my life that I almost lost track of all the different places. But one particular apartment in New York City came up in a conversation the other day. It was that time when a plumber knocked on my door, and I thought he had the wrong apartment. He was looking for water damage, and I sent him to try my neighbor’s door. Two days later, loud banging commenced above my apartment. First, the dull thump of plaster walls being demolished, and then the distinctive clang of metal against metal. Eventually, I heard large pieces of rubble falling between the walls. The sound was so close it inspired me to get down on my hands and knees to see if some of my plaster had come loose from the wall my bookcases leaned against.
With my face pressed against the floor, I could see what I couldn’t see before: Quite a lot of water damage behind my bookcases. The super was summoned. The plumber returned with what I suspected was an I-told-you-so look on his face. It was determined that I would need to move all three bookcases to assess the damage, which meant moving a lot of books. (Fortunately, books and cases were undamaged by the water.)
There is nothing like having to move your belongings to force you to confront them.
As I waited a couple of days for the plasterer to come, my living room and foyer were a maze of stacked book towers. The books took up a shocking amount of place loosed from their usual confines. This situation got me thinking I should prune our collection a bit. Before the unshelving, some books had been shelved two rows deep. There were others wedged in horizontally on top of other books. Some large tomes perched atop the cases. The truth is, I had long ago outgrown my book storage.
I’m pretty good at letting go of things, but books are something of a weak point. (The last time I counted, since I live in my house in Vienna, I had at least 500 books). I’ve gotten pretty good at passing on novels I’ve read, agreeing with Nan Talese, who once said, “I don’t reread old books, there’s too much to read.” What I struggle with are nonfiction books (interiors books, health, cookbooks, art books, etc.).
In her best-selling book The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up, Marie Kondo instructed her readers to do what I was forced to do: Take every single book off the shelf. Kondo wants you to pick up the book and decide if the sight of it sparks joy—and only keep those that do. She cautions, “Make sure you don’t start reading it. Reading clouds your judgement.” I suppose this method might be quite effective, but I’m not that steadfast: I can’t help but crack a book open before giving it away.
While living amongst the book stacks, I’d pick up a title, thinking that we might be ready to part ways. But before I put it on the to-donate pile, I’d just flip through and make sure it wasn’t a keeper. Inevitably, I would find something that delighted me in its pages: A recipe I made once and loved, a garden I’d like to visit someday, or photos of an apartment that left a big impression on me years ago and still stops me in my tracks. In almost every case, I decided not to donate the book.
Does this sound familiar? I’m betting it does. I found myself wondering why it’s so hard to part with books, and I concluded that it’s a general feeling that you might read it again someday, but there are different reasons for different books. If you, too, struggle to winnow down your library, it might help to think about why it’s so hard; here’s why:
We spent money on them.
I suspect every reader has books they bought and never read. I know I do. We think we’ll get to them someday, but often these books linger unread for years. This is a category of books that I’d encourage you to let go of by giving them away to friends or donation. If you really want to read the book later, you can always get another copy.
We might reference it someday.
Maybe this is more of a problem for writers, but there are so many books that I keep because I’m sure they’ll be a useful reference someday. One little workaround I’ve found for this type of book involves two apps. Here’s how it works: I borrow the book from the library, or I fire up the Kindle app on my desktop, where I can easily search for the bit of text I am looking for.
They’re “classics.”
Often, it’s hard to let go of a book that is a great work of literature. For one, these books seem like ones we’ll be more likely to reread, but I think there’s a deeper reason that they linger. “Important” books are often part of our identity: We see ourselves as the person who read Henry James and Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I’ve gotten better about letting these go, shedding most of the books that date back to my undergrad literature studies. Know that if you ever want to read a classic again, any library will have it. However, I have struggled to let go of the Scribner’s Library paperbacks (you know the ones with the gray backdrop and colorblock title backdrops) that I bought at used bookshops downtown a thousand years ago, which leads to my next reason it’s hard to declutter books.
We’re sentimental.
I have kept a copy of Samantha Irby’s short stories that my friend suggested I read because she thought my non-fiction was in a similar vein. (I read that book so closely, looking for clues!) At fortysomething, I’ve still been holding onto my copy of Sara the Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett because it was my favorite book as a kid. I will probably keep the children’s book The Very Hungry Caterpillar until the day I die because it sparks a tender memory: My then two-year-old, now thirteen-year-old, marched right over to this book in a bookshop and managed to communicate we MUST buy it. I did, and then on a Monday in preschool, I saw it in his classroom. The teacher had read it to the kids, and he had recognized it. Oh my heart.
The walls of my apartment in New York City had been replastered, and the bookcases were put back in place, the titles reshelved. And of course, I added more books, but some I had to let go simply because I moved so many times.
It is important to dig deep and pick some books to say goodbye to. But I also want to make space for new books—new ideas, new chapters in life. (I also hate the way an overcrowded bookshelf looks.) So, I will endeavor to keep pruning. Maybe I should host a book swap to give some away?
A sliver of salvation for our crowded shelves came from my almost 13-year-old son. I asked him to identify some books to give away and he swiftly and unsentimentally divided his stack into keep and give piles–no sentimental hesitations.
Happy reading and book hoarding, my lovelies.
My inspiration: Some of the dreamiest custom bookcases ever in the home of designer Roman Alonso featured in Bibliostyle, a whole book about homes full of books.
The other day, I checked my son’s math homework, and I started to cry. Math was never my preferred subject in school. I just never understood it, no matter how hard I studied. I am so glad he knows what all those formulas and sad circles mean. These days, he loves to study for math tests by teaching and explaining this weird stuff to me. I love my smart boy. I don’t know many moms who are good at math, so I will share some math problems with you. Let’s see if you can find the solution.
1. You have two children, ages two and five. You must take them to the dentist at 10 a.m. tomorrow, which is five kilometers from home, and you’ll be driving at thirty km/h. When should you start getting your children ready to leave?
ANSWER: Yesterday. This allows for one roadside stop to find a lost teddy bear, a second to break up a sibling fight that includes a bloody nose, and a third to clean up vomit. In other words, just pay that appointment no-show fee now and let their teeth rot.
2. You cook spaghetti and meatballs for your family, which they have enjoyed at least two hundred times in the past. What is the statistical probability that all of your kids will inexplicably say this is the most disgusting meal ever and refuse to eat it?
ANSWER: 100 percent.
3. One of your children must be at soccer practice at 4 p.m.; the other has their piano lesson at 4:30 p.m.; and you have a mammogram booked for 4:45 p.m. Will you make it back to pick up your kids from their respective lessons before 5:30 p.m.?
ANSWER: Yes, because you had to take an urgent Zoom call from your boss about the teriyaki chicken you left in the office fridge three weeks ago. You’ve now missed your appointment, but don’t worry, it will only take two years to book another one.
4. Add the following to work out how long it will take you to get your child to sleep tonight:
Screaming about shower time for five minutes, plus screaming about the end of shower time for ten minutes, plus demanding to be re-wrapped in a towel eight times so it feels “right” for ten minutes = 25 mins
Arguing about needing the Stitch pajamas, NOT the “dumb” Bluey ones, for five minutes, plus having a demonic episode because they’re too wet to get them on for ten minutes = 15 mins
Smearing toothpaste on the basin, mirror, and walls for five minutes, plus brushing teeth for five seconds = 3.05 mins
Refusing to use toilet = 2 mins
Reading The Gruffalo = 10 mins
Reading The Gruffalo again, but with a weird accent = 10 mins
Reading The Gruffalo again, but with a weird accent and also in song = 10 mins
Getting a cup of water = 2 mins
Getting another cup of water because the first one tasted “yucky” = 3 mins
Going to the toilet because of all the water = 3 mins
Getting up because they’re scared of The Gruffalo = 2 mins
Wanting you to sing KPop Demon Hunters in a lullaby arrangement = 2 mins
Reciting The Gruffalo from memory with your eyes closed, then falling asleep before your child does = 5 mins
ANSWER: Trick question—your child is still awake.
5. You must be up at 5 a.m. tomorrow, but you only got the kids to bed at 9 p.m. To ensure you get the recommended nightly sleep allocation for adult women (eight hours), should you:
A. Go to sleep immediately B. Watch one quick Friends episode to unwind C. Open a bottle of wine, and watch five back-to-back episodes of Sex and the City while scrolling Instagram
ANSWER: A, but you’ll definitely choose C. Screw the recommendations; you need this “me” time.
6. You pulled an all-nighter before your child’s eighth birthday, wrapping presents, stuffing goodie bags, and baking a dairy-free Labubu cake. How many times does your kid say thank you?
A. 3 B. 1 C. -5
ANSWER: C. There were no thank-yous, and your child had an explosive tantrum because her Labubu was orchid pink, not pastel pink.
7. Your husband is working away this week. What is the statistical probability of one or more of these things occurring within twenty-four hours of his departure?
A once-in-a-hundred-year hailstorm knocks out the power to your house so that you cannot use your phone, the Wi-Fi, or your electric vehicle
One of your children comes down with a new, rare form of flesh-eating bacteria
Another of your children gets lice
You get lice, the flesh-eating bacteria, and a UTI
Your children’s fighting becomes so violent and loud that a neighbor calls the cops
ANSWER: 100 percent.
8. You have a spare thousand euros to spend (remember, this is theoretical). Is it better for your mental health to spend it on:
A. Therapy B. A cleaner C. A rusty old van
ANSWER: C. Park the van in an abandoned lot where you can drink white wine, eat leftover Goldfish from your handbag, and scream into the abyss.
9. Your kids make you breakfast in bed for Mother’s Day, unsupervised. There is syrup on the kitchen ceiling, the smoke alarm is blaring, and the dog is licking raw eggs off the floor. How long will it take you to clean up?
ANSWER: It doesn’t matter. Your stomach is full of pancakes, your sheets are covered in dog slobber, and your tired heart is full of love. There are some things math simply can’t explain.
My son and I watched all Episodes and Seasons of Stranger Things, and he loved how these kids dressed up and lived a seemingly easier and carefree life. I mean, honestly, I think the 80s were, besides the shoulder-pad blazers and shirts, the best time. The ’90s were okay, but I loved the ’80s, and I will tell you why, kid.
You want to know what I was like in the ’80s and ’90s? Take a deep breath and imagine Snapchat and TikTok don’t exist, and the only way to find out who’s having a party tonight is to dial a landline phone number and ask someone’s mom.
We were built differently back then. I once had a three-hour argument in a mall food court about which actor was in that one movie with the bus, with absolutely no way to resolve it other than unearned confidence. I wish you knew what an indie record store basement smelled like vs. the Instagram-worthy birthday parties I have been throwing for you since you were five.
Toys? I think that the 80s were a golden age for toys. This decade introduced us to toys like Cabbage Patch Kids, Glow Worm, My Little Pony, Transformers, and the iconic Rubik’s Cube, to name a few. These toys sparked our imagination and provided endless hours of entertainment.
In the ’90s, I wore belted, baggy jeans, not for the silhouette but because they covered the fact that my primary source of nutrition was gas-station pretzels and lukewarm coffee. I wasn’t doing beach waves with an automatic curler from Sephora. My look was more “I passed out with wet hair on a radiator last night.”
The best word that describes 80s hair is excess! From big hair to gravity-defying creations, the 80s really did push the boundaries of hairstyling to new heights. Not to mention how the sale of hair spray and gels must have skyrocketed through the roof!
Big hair was all the rage, and almost everyone’s motto was “The higher the better”. Oh, how I envied my friends who could rock the big, messy Madonna-style hair with the glorious standing-up fringe. I was never allowed to leave the house looking like this. God knows I tried, but my mum would always catch me and send me back to brush my hair out. She would say, “Why do you want to look like a cockatoo?” I just did, Mum…..I really, really did!
Nothing about love was complicated back then. Relationships lingered without the ability to instantly reach someone via text, and most breakups were done on a folded piece of loose-leaf paper. My peak romance was the guy I met at an ice cream shop next to the public pool who gave me a mixtape, followed by a hickey he sucked out on my neck while I leaned on a dumpster in the alley.
If I said I’d meet someone at a bar at 10 p.m., I just stood there alone sipping my amaretto sour. If they didn’t show up, I didn’t get a text saying: Running late. I just went home and assumed they had moved or died.
What did I do for fun? I read the liner notes of my Alanis Morissette Jagged Little Pill CD like they were scripture. I scrounged for loose change in Grandpa’s car to pocket for my next Hubba Bubba pack to make the biggest bubbles. Or I went to a movie and didn’t know what it was about until I saw the poster in the lobby. There was no doomscrolling, only staining my fingertips with the same copy of Rolling Stone or Bravo magazine for months.
So, no, honey, I wasn’t “vibing” in the ’80s and ’90s. I was perpetually slurping a Slushie, waiting for a payphone, and shaking cigarette ash off my oversized flannel shirt. Just like you, I was figuring it out, only with better music and thankfully scant photographic evidence.
But if you really want the ’80s and ’90s experience, take your iPhone 17 Pro, throw it into a storm drain, then go sit in a dark room listening to the Goo Goo Dolls until you feel an unidentifiable sense of dread. It should take about four minutes and fifty seconds. Then ride your BMX bike (not an e-bike) without a helmet, because it wasn’t mandatory, which offered a sense of freedom. Of course, we hurt ourselves, but it was usually fine. We cleaned off the dirt, washed the wound with lake water, and off we went again. We survived and had so much fun.
So, lowkey and no ragebait, my love. You’re welcome!
One of the books I’ve been reading this past month is Psycho-Decorating: What Homes Reveal About People by Margaret H. Harmon, Ph.D. Harmon was an American psychologist who wrote this book in 1977 analyzing the relationship between the personalities of people and their homes. It’s a little hard to come by and can be pricey, but there are usually a few copies on eBay. Collecting books on art, design, history, and interiors has been an important part of my life ever since I can remember.
What is psycho-decorating?
One of my small pleasures is being invited into someone’s home for the first time. It’s such a significant moment. Sometimes, we see snippets of people’s homes because of social media. Their kitchen counter, office nook, bedside table, and dining room. You see these different vignettes of their home, but it’s not until you visit their home for the first time that you can piece it all together. Of course, this makes sense! This is the layout! This is so their vibe! This is beautiful! If you go into someone’s home and it accurately represents their personality, you know they’ve done a good job at decorating their space.
Psycho-decorating is defined as the connection between the psyche and the interior decoration that a person creates.
There are exceptions, which Dr. Harmon does note in the book. Maybe someone’s too busy with work or going through something tough in their personal life. Another scenario I can think of is maybe they live with roommates and they’re not able to express themselves beyond their bedrooms. There are a lot of factors, but for this, we’re going to assume that people are intentionally taking the time to decorate their spaces. Note: this book was written in 1977 and some things may have changed since then.
When it comes to my own space, I’ve thought about how much has been updated, since I moved about a million times already. My first couch in NYC was gray and from KEA. My second was a light brown corduroy sectional also from IKEA. My current one is brownish and was taken from the previous owners since it was almost new and hands-down the most comfortable and practical one I have ever had. And most likely, I’m bound to go through a couple of more couches.
Textures and patterns
As people, we’re constantly growing and changing, so it only makes sense that our spaces also go through edits, too. Some things you’ll want to keep around in every space you’re in, like a great lamp, valuables trinkets or a favorite piece of art. But we tend to want to update pieces that can bring a more drastic change into our space, like a rug, or a good bookshelf.
The Texture-Feeling Continuum
This interesting excerpt is regarding women who gravitate towards velvet and corduroy:
“Turning towards textures at the extreme ends of the continuum, women who are high in sexual needs are inclinded to use velvet or curudory in their living room sofas…their preference for deeply textured fabrics may reflect their strong affective feelings…[These fabrics] were also favored by women with highly-developed consciences and feelings about social justice, but they like to include a variety of other textures along with the velvets. They are partial to burled wood…[and] as a counterbalance, [they] also like to include some furniture covered in leather or vinyl.”
It also points out the most telling signs to look for when uncovering someone’s personality through their decor: straight vs. curved lines in furniture, texture, pattern, symbols and signs, and color, to name a few.
“Patterns can supply cues about interpersonal relations. Using many patterns in one’s living room, I’ve found, indicates friendliness, sensitivity, and ego-strenth (the ability to cope). Those who like to be independent of other people and free to follow their own inclinations tend to use fewer patterns in their living rooms. People who wish to be friendly not only tend to use more patterns but they like to use curved lines and avoid straight ones on their living room chairs.”
The fear of decorating
You can also tell a lot about someone based on how they talk about decorating in casual conversation. Some people may be scared to make mistakes (even though that’s such a big part of decorating your space and finding out what works. Some people don’t think they’re capable of making decisions on their own, so they hire an interior designer to do it all. Note: it’s not bad to hire an interior designer, but a good interior designer “…believes that clients should not abdicate completely all responsibilities, but should make their tastes and feelings known to their decorators.”
“For most people, however, refusing to take part in the decorating of one’s home seems to represent a refusal to step into the unknown parts of one’s personality, perhaps because one’s standards are extremely high or possibly one’s self-image is low.”
The strongest home decorators are those who have a desire to “assert individuality and a willingness to depart from the beaten path.” I believe that all the objects in our homes are what make our homes our homes. We’re proud to have them on display because they represent us and help us express ourselves through our spaces.
The rest of the book is filled with even more gems, like what it means if only one person in your household decorates (me!) or how to properly read someone’s coffee table. Not everything will apply to every person, but I do think it’s interesting this book comes from a psychologist in the 70s. I still have more to read so I’ll need to do Part II. But I’ll leave you with another excerpt of things to keep in mind:
“People’s homes contain signals about the way they look at life. Is a person open-minded? Do [they] view the world as is, or is there a tendency to look at it through rose-colored glasses? What are some of the clues that can tell you about these important atttudes?
One of the surest indicators is the presence or absence of bookshelves in the living room. Tolerant individuals, willing to entertain new ideas and diverse opinions, are more likely to have bookshelves in their living room. People who do not have bookshelves in their living room tend to be somewhat dominant and aggressive in their attitudes. Perhaps they are slightly less open to viewpoints different from their own.”
It’s fascinating how we pour ourselves into our spaces—our wall colors, bedding choices, taste in rugs, and dining table decisions all stem from somewhere within us.
Also, if you find this book anywhere online, please buy me a copy.
My gynecologist suggested that, since I am approaching 45 (sigh!), it is time for a mammogram. This is what women your age have to go through, he added. He explained the procedure to me, and I left his office with weird feelings. This will hurt for sure, I thought. Well, how can it not? Your boob will be squeezed to the size of a f***ing pancake. If you have read my previous articles for a while now, you might know that I love to overanalyse things and think things through, ha! So, below I share my thoughts on how I imagine this meeting on the invention of the mammogram machine for breast cancer prevention must have gone.
APRIL 1965 MEETING TO DISCUSS BOOB CANCER PROBLEM
CARL: Gentlemen, I have some unfortunate news: We’ve just discovered that cancer can grow in women’s breasts.
TED: Oh no. That is going to ruin breasts for me.
FRANK: Me too.
CARL: As medical professionals, it’s incumbent upon us to invent an early detection system so this disease doesn’t ravage perfectly perky gazongas.
JOE: Couldn’t we just, you know, feel for it?
CARL: Unfortunately, not all cancers can be detected with a good old touch.
JOE: I hear the Germans are doing great things with X-rays. Maybe we can get women to take off their clothes for electromagnetic radiation.
FRANK: Hmm, I like the “take off their clothes” part, but not doing something tactile feels like a missed opportunity.
TED: Ooh, what about a machine that the boob has to be physically placed inside? Like, by us.
JOE: Yes! It could be manhandled onto a steel plate.
TED: Emphasis on the man!
JOE: And the room could be kept at subzero temperatures, so women get those cute little goose bumps.
CARL: I believe the scientific term is “piloerection.”
TED: Yeah, because they give me a pile of erections.
[Sound of a high five]
JOE: And then a vice could crank down onto the tit and flatten it to the height of a vinyl record.
FRANK: What record?
JOE: Bob Dylan?
TED: Shouldn’t it be a woman?
JOE: Right. Joan Baez?
TED: Great boobs.
CARL: So the vice crushes the udders until the woman worries they might burst?
JOE: Exactly.
TED: Can they burst?
CARL: I’m not sure.
FRANK: Me neither.
JOE: Should we order lunch?
CARL: We’ll need a way to mark the nipple so it doesn’t look like an abnormality on the image.
FRANK: Right… what about an industrial adhesive tape that would come very close to ripping off the skin?
JOE: Smart.
TED: And if the nipple does rip off, we could stop the milk from pouring out with our mouths.
CARL: Naturally.
SANDRA: Maybe we could also use this technology to detect cancer in men’s testicles.
TED: …
CARL: …
FRANK: …
JOE: …
CARL: Sandra, could you get us lunch? I have a strange craving for pancakes.
[Audible sigh]
JOE: Here’s a question: What if smashing the hooters permanently damages them?
FRANK: Oh, god. That would be worse than cancer. Maybe we could invent a separate procedure to plump them up. Like, an augmentation.
TED: Yes! We could offer it to all women, independent of the cancer stuff.
JOE: Absolutely.
FRANK: It would only be fair.
CARL: Well, gentlemen, this has been very productive. All that’s left is a name for the test.
If there’s one question I get all the time, it’s “Why can’t I be as smart as you?”
This is a good question, for which I have a brilliant answer.
I am extremely smart. Extremly. No kidding. So, so smart.
Some people refer to this as being “gifted.” This term is misleading. It implies that intelligence was handed to me like a present in a box that, upon shaking, feels like it might be a video game or the keys to a vehicle with a “thumping” sound system, but that, upon opening, is just a sweater with an embroidered pussycat on it that gets you beaten up when you wear it to school three days in a row. But my genius is not a gift, nor does it spring from textbooks or manuals or the ramblings of my so-called teachers, professors, employers, and parole officers. My brilliance is a tree that grows in the fertile soil of experience, and extends 74 km into space, where it catches passing satellites, which not only hang from its beautiful branches like multimillion-euro Christmas ornaments but also impart to my brilliant tree all of their satellite knowledge. This is how I know the coordinates where someone is or what someone did (or didn’t do) even though they tell me they never did X, Y, and Z. I can detect almost anything because I am so smart. It’s also why you get such great cell-phone reception in my presence.
In short, unless your brain is a 74-km-tall tree that catches satellites, that’s the first reason you can’t be as smart as me.
Second, I know the answer to every question that has ever been asked and that can ever be asked. Each and every answer is written on a sort of cheat sheet that I keep folded up under my watchband (which may sound like cheating, but it’s not, because I memorized all the answers when I wrote them down, so I don’t ever actually look at the sheet—I just like knowing it’s there). You may ask (and I knew you would, because it’s on my sheet) how it could be possible to get such a wealth of information onto a piece of paper that could be folded up and put inconspicuously under my watchband. The answer is lasers. (“Lasers” is also the answer to almost all the other questions that have ever been asked or could ever be asked, so if you less intelligent folks find yourselves facing a tough question, try just answering, “Lasers.”) But these are not ordinary lasers. They’re special lasers that I invented, potty-trained, and put through school. And they write their information in a typeface that I also invented, which can only be deciphered by a person like myself, a person whose IQ is an infinity symbol.
To summarize, unless you can read the infinity-IQ typeface written by special homeschooled lasers and happen to have made a cheat sheet containing all the answers to all questions, that’s the second reason you can’t be as smart as me.
There are 847 more reasons why you can’t be as smart as me, but our time is short, and, really, is there any point in dwelling on that which you can’t change? (The answer is no. But if you said “Lasers,” you were close.) If you would like more information on your inability to be as smart as me, send a bottle of Jim Beam, a pair of binoculars, and a self-addressed stamped envelope to: “Smartest Woman in the Universe.” You don’t need to write anything else. They’ll find me. The law always does. Reason No. 8 involves sticky buns, and Reason No. 612 details my nightly aluminum-foil mummification ritual. They’re all good reading and well worth your investment in time, bourbon, binoculars, and stamps.
To conclude, there are many reasons you can’t be as smart as me, but my hope is that when you see giant trees extending into space you’ll think of me and my mind, and be inspired to leap into the branches of those trees and begin to climb, reaching ever higher, until you grow too tired and hungry to continue and eventually fall and wonder why you even tried to ascend to the heights of my genius.
If I could say one final thing to each and every one of you, it would simply be this:
I have spent the last several weeks without my phone tethered to my side, and I need to tell you, it has been glorious.
Not in a dramatic, life-altering, let’s-sell-everything-and move-to-a-cave-in-the-woods sort of way. Just quietly, steadily better.
I started small. Leaving it in the bedroom while I drank my coffee. Tossing it in my bag and not reaching for it while moving through the day. Letting it exist somewhere nearby but not on me, not glowing, not asking anything of me.
This gave me a lot of anxiety at first.
Someone texted me, and they’re going to think I’m ignoring them.So and so texted again. They definitely think I’m ignoring them.What if it’s urgent? What if I’m missing something? Am I being rude?
It took about a week and a half to realize something very simple. This is not my problem.
We have collectively agreed—without actually agreeing to it—that we are available at all times. That every message deserves an immediate response. That silence, even for an hour, is suspicious. And I just… opted out.
Nothing bad happened. No one’s life unraveled because I answered later or the next day. The world did not end because I was unreachable for a stretch of time. The texts I feared could be urgent were not.
What did happen is I got my attention back. And once my attention was mine, everything else followed.
I started doing things that have been sitting quietly on the sidelines of my mind for months.
I deep-cleaned my house. Which, I have to say, was both difficult and highly satisfying. I deep-cleaned and organized parts of my big garden and I had been politely ignoring for an embarrassing amount of time. I built things with my own two hands, slowly and imperfectly, but completely.
I returned to reading and writing more. Not skimming or paying half-attention while checking on something else, but actually reading. Letting my mind stay there, undisturbed.
I’ve leaned into small rituals of self-care. Longer showers. Skincare that’s not rushed. Taking the time to get dressed and trying new outfits. Making a real breakfast. Moving more slowly in the mornings. Letting things take the time they take.
I’ve spent more time with my family in a way that feels undistracted. Conversations that stretch. Details obtained and remembered. Moments that aren’t interrupted by the impulse to check something, respond to something, or appease a short attention span by scrolling. There has been connection in a way that I didn’t really realize had been missing until I got it back again.
Work has expanded in a way where I’m accomplishing more than I did before. I’ve been more present and focused on the task in front of me rather than splitting my attention or getting distracted and pulled away in different directions.
And Instagram—honestly, Instagram who?
I cannot tell you how long that app has had a strange, low-grade hold over me. Not in a way that I enjoyed, but out of habit. Boredom. Pick up phone, tap icon, scroll, repeat. I don’t get on for days now. Days! And it’s fucking incredible. I don’t miss it. And when I do get on, I’m off within a few minutes because I’d rather be doing something else.
There’s actual data behind these claims, which makes it all feel a little less anecdotal and a little more alarming. The average person checks their phone between 90 and 150 times a day. That’s once every ten minutes or so. Screen time reports regularly clock in at between 3 and 5 hours daily. Studies have been linked to increased anxiety, decreased attention span, and disrupted sleep. This figure is startling. Even more startling is that most of us have been aware of this for years, but continue justifying our phone addiction while complaining about our anxieties and not having any time. I definitely did.
It’s not that technology is inherently bad. It’s that it’s constant. And anything constant becomes pressure. Expectation. A subtle anxiety that we should be checking, responding, looking, knowing, and refreshing. And if we don’t, oddly, we feel behind or like we’re missing out on something big. We’re not.
Putting the phone down will not fix all of your problems, but it removes that hum. And in its place is something much quieter, something much more yours.
I’m not saying that I won’t be on my phone, on social media, or online. Of course I will. But things felt different for me over the past few weeks, and gave me some perspective.
I don’t have anything revolutionary to offer here. No system, no rules, no rigid boundaries.
Just this:
Try leaving your phone in the other room when you’re at home. Leave it in your bag while you’re out. Go about your day without it in your hand, by your side, or in your pocket.
It is allowed.
You are allowed not to respond immediately. You are allowed to not be reachable at all times. You are allowed to move through your day without documenting it, interrupting it, or reaching for it.
The addiction is real. That part is undeniable. It’s kind of miraculous how quickly things shift once you create even a small amount of space from it.
I wanted my time back. And without much ceremony, I took it.
One morning, I woke up, and it was like a spell had been broken the way I looked around my house and saw how dull everything was, not because it was lacking but because of how full it was of stuff.
Stuff I didn’t particularly love. Stuff with no serious meaning to it. Stuff I didn’t care about. Stuff that, if you had secretly tossed, I wouldn’t even realize went missing. Stuff I bought because it was trendy at the time, because my friend had it, because I had seen attractive influencers brag about it on Instagram, and it made me think that I could be her.
So, I did a bit of Marie Kondo-ing and produced a few large bags of clothes and trinkets, and stuff for donation. Standing in front of all my stuff, it hit me that all of it used to be money, and all of that used to be time. I was standing in front of the metabolic waste of my existence, materialized. I was looking at the amount of my time, therefore my life, that had been turned into garbage. And the worst part is that I could’ve prevented it.
Materialism isn’t inherently evil; it can be gorgeous through the frames of abundance or art. Miranda Priestly’s “stuff” monologue from The Devil Wears Prada, for example, shows how material creates jobs, fuels culture, and shapes history.
This is the mindset that will make you waste your life away into bags of garbage: the idea that shopping is a material issue, and overconsumption is a budgeting problem, rather than a spiritual problem. It’s easy to be spirited away, whisked into another world operated by desires that come from ads and friends and fleeting trends. Your appetite for novelty and your fear of missing out sucks the joy out of you—the more you eat, the hungrier you are. The more you spend, the more vapid you fell. You lack spirit, not another fashion idenity. You don’t need another aesthetic, you need stronger values.
Do you know the movie Spirited Away? If not, go watch it because it is super good. The title Spirited Away in Japanese is Sen to Chihiro no Kamikakushi, and kamikakushi means “hidden by the gods,” a folk belief where people mysteriously vanish into another realm. This film is about magical abduction and losing your identity. Chihiro loses her name and becomes “Sen”: to be spirited away is like being stolen from yourself, forgetting who you are under the influence of forces like greed, fear, anger—and who’s to say that emotions aren’t magical? That desires aren’t demonic possessions of the mind (“demonic” meaning “godlike divisive superfactor” in Greek)? Who’s to say that feeling horny isn’t its own kind of spell? We literally use “mania” and “craze” to describe the way people desire something.
Lust, for example, is the feeling of wanting something really badly. It doesn’t have to be a carnal desire but it’s about a possessive craving that ends in a feeling of collapse, an appetite that, once appeased, reveals its emptiness:
Lust is the deceiver. Lust wrenches our lives until nothing matters except the one we think we love, and under that deceptive spell we kill for them, give all for them, and then, when we have what we have wanted, we discover that it is all an illusion and nothing is there. Lust is a voyage to nowhere, to an empty land, but some men just love such voyages and never care about the destination.
—Bernard Cornwell
Shopping (especially for books) has this effect on me, the voyage is more satisfying than the destination. There is such thing as post-purchase clarity: the moment when you buy something trendy and you suddenly sober up to how much you don’t care about it (let alone like it); you just want to be seen having it.
Who is No-Face?
Birkenstock because I am German. No socks but with face, though.
Spirited Away is most known for the character with the least lines: a masked ghost who can conjure gold. He has no backstory, we only know that he is banned from entering the bathhouse. Chihiro, out of kindness, lets him in. No-Face is refused service at first, but the staff quickly compromise their values upon seeing his gold. They serenade him, “Welcome the rich man. He’s hard for you to miss. His butt keeps getting bigger, so there’s plenty to kiss!” while they fight for the gold nuggets that plop out of his fat hands. Then, he devours the workers in despair when he realizes their kindness is bought, and only Chihiro is genuine.
The painful part of loneliness is the realization that most people are ass-kissers and friendship is rare. Likewise, people feel the most alienated when they suddenly sober up to the fact that most of their desires are herd-driven, that most of them are no where close to the truth, if they even have a clear enough sense of what that is that matters to them. It’s like waking up from a trance state and realizing, What have I done to myself? I certainly felt this way standing in front of my garbage bags. Loneliness, alienation, addictions and self-defeating loops—these are not material problems, but ‘desire’ problems.
We think we want things, but every desire points to a way of life, a kind of person we long to become. Objects seduce us not with their utility but with their promise of transcendence—status, attention, belonging. That’s why No-Face has no face: he is desire itself, the appetite to become, the emptiness that consumes while wishing it were someone else.
Money reveals this: In Roman mythology, the temple of Juno Moneta was both sanctuary and mint (it’s where we get the words “money” and “monetary”). To strike a coin was to sanctify it with divine authority, so it circulated as both economic and spiritual power. It still does: money organizes meaning. Fiat currency works because we collectively believe it means something—fiatliterally “let it be” in Latin—its meaning assigned by our shared narrative. And because money is tethered to desire, it doesn’t just reflect value; it follows it. It’s the pull of eyes when a sports car glides down a street. Shopping is not independent from the spiritual realm that strips away our names.
When we feel the weight of our limits, we start reaching toward idols to imitate, goals to chase, places to explore, people to meet. What we’re really chasing is a sense of immortality or infinity, something that lives longer than we ever will. We want to be remembered long after we’ve left a conversation, the company, the world.
Desire is never about the object itself. If it were, once you acquired it, the desire would vanish. Yet, your wardrobe keeps getting stuffier while you still find yourself with nothing to wear. Desire is about what the object seems to promise us: a fuller, richer existence. This is why Marie Kondo’s “spark joy” test is great: it reframes consumption as discernment. It asks whether an object raises your spirit or weighs it down. Left unchecked, your possessions take away your freedom to be who you are. As Fight Club says, “The things you own end up owning you.”
You are not your job, you’re not how much money you have in the bank. You are not the car you drive. You’re not the contents of your wallet. You are not your fucking khakis.
—Chuck Palahniuk (Fight Club)
Stronger values make you spend more mindfully because they shift the axis of desire. When you know what you worship—what you actually stand for and who you want to become—everything gets tested against that vision. Values act like a sieve: they filter out the empty cravings that come from comparison and they let through only the things that genuinely serve your spirit. Without values, desires lead you astray by following ads and algorithms and the envy of friends—a state commonly known as “being distracted”.
The scariest part of Chihiro watching her parents turn into pigs is that they could’ve simply walked away. The unattended food stalls feel like a test of whether one can resist charming distractions. Like the family in Spirited Away, you’re rarely forced to follow one desire over another (until you choose wrongly, and only later realize what you’ve done, if you realize it at all). But if you aim at your highest value—placing no other gods above it, coveting nothing of your neighbor’s—you free yourself from the distractions that split your soul and can refocus your being on becoming who you want to be.
Now, it’s unlikely for wealth to make one miserable. My point here isn’t that money is unimportant; it’s that if we have money without love, freedom, and a well-understood life, we will never be truly happy. And if we have them, but are missing the fortune, we can never be truly unhappy. It’s nice to have an expensive watch, but the watch will never be enough — feel enough — without having someone who will make you lose track of time.
“I’ve learned to value failed conversations, missed connections, confusions. What remains is what’s unsaid, what’s underneath. Understanding on another level of being.” – Anna Kamienska
It is what it is. This statement could simply define our collective malaise. Lately, I have been catching this phrase uttered repeatedly. Another bullshit at work: it is what it is. A breakup: it is what it is. A missed deadline: it is what it is. Wars all over the world: it is what it is. Lost keys: it is what it is. The TSA demonstrations and super long lines at the airport: it is what it is. New prices on gas and electricity: it is what it f***ing is. The GIZ fee even though I pay for internet and have no TV or radio: it is what it is!
Sometimes there is an optimism to these words. It is what it is, and I can find a way to tolerate the circumstances and work with what it is. Then there is a shrug of resignation, it is what it is and there is nothing I can do about it, nothing to work with. Both lenses hold a truth, but where the former offers acceptance, the latter brings an abandonment of hope.
Perhaps, I abandon hope as a way to protect myself. When things are difficult, uncertain, and weird, my responses get hard, rigid, and defensive. So, if it is what it is, how do I “dance” with what is?
I begin to find something to value in the circumstance, in this mess, I can sometimes find something miraculous. If I cannot find something to value, maybe I am stuck in some weird mindset. Maybe I am trying to change things, trying to dissect things, trying to win at things. But in the trying, I often muddy the water that is best cleared by leaving things alone.
To me, it becomes a dance between taking responsibility for what I can control and find value within it, and leaving alone what I cannot. That is perhaps the difficulty. I keep splashing about because I don’t want to lose something, be it an expectation, be it an opportunity, be it hope. But finding a way to be okay with whatever it is becomes about accepting loss.
Are you still with me? I hope you are.
One of my favourite poems is One Art by Elizabeth Bishop, a prompt to ‘lose something every day.’ This is a practice because I don’t want to lose things. I want to hold on tight. I don’t want to accept it is what it is, because then I lose what it is not. But as Bishop opens the poem, ‘The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.’
Sometimes how it goes feels like a deluge of loss. Lost keys, lost love, lost experiences. But perhaps that deluge is leading us to something and helping to soften us into the dance. As Anne Lamott wrote, “When a lot of things start going wrong all at once, it is to protect something big and lovely that is trying to get itself born—and that this something needs for you to be distracted so that it can be born as perfectly as possible.”
Sometimes, this distraction allows me to step back and see what THIS really is. To uncover what I might have been long ignoring, to extract the reality from a fantasy, to hold the good bits and the not so good bits. Sometimes, this distraction is teaching me to hold things lightly. To learn a bit, to laugh a bit, to let it go. Sometimes, this distraction is showing me what I really need.
Sometimes, this distraction is teaching me to brace uncertainty with love, rather than resistance. Then I tell myself that it all may look like a wreck, but I go at it like it is a new opportunity, a new challenge. And I bring love to it all. Any disaster I can survive is an improvement in my character, my stature, and my life.
“Every storm runs out of rain” – Maya Angelou
I don’t know when I will meet another storm. That is the basic truth of life. It is unfair and it doesn’t make sense. But if I can bring love to the moment, maybe in time I won’t mind so much, or at least find myself caring about certain issues less. I just don’t mind that much anymore what happens and this way what is can be what it is. From my side, there is no resistance (doesn’t get me anywhere anyway), aversion, gasping or chasing around in a spinning wheel. This does not mean I become passive. It simply is what it is, this is what I need, I don’t mind what happens are all forms of acceptance that allows me to greet my wants, goals and desires and work toward them, without worrying about how something will turn out.
So, to sum this all up. You worry and resist, you grasp, but it will be what it will be whether you worry, resist or grasp. You can sometimes lower your expectations to ensure you aren’t hurt by whatever it will be, but you can still encounter hurt. It is what it is. Whether I lose something, whether someone is disappointed in us, whether something turns out differently from how I expected. All I can do is keep going with what is, finding the love in it, accepting and soften. So my sharp edges don’t wind up being death by a thousand cuts but I can mould to what is, instead. After all, it is what it is, and it is also this. The surprise phone call from a friend, this memory, this person who loves you, your kid(s) who love(s) you, this smile, this idea. Just look around at everything beautiful in your day. Take it all with you – what it is, what it is not, what you have lost, what you have gained, what you are waiting for, what has arrived. And then just dance with it all.
