A few months ago, Becca and I recorded one of my favorite episodes of Bad on Paper that we’ve done together. It was all about little luxuries, the tiny everyday things that feel, well, luxurious. We had listeners call in too, and by the end of the episode we had talked about skin care, Trader Joe’s flowers, regular manicures, and much, much more. When it came to my particular list of little luxuries, I discussed candles, McDonald’s drive-through Diet Coke, and Friday night pasta, among other things. The one thing I mentioned that I kept thinking about after we stopped recording, though, was my love of making everyday (and often boring) tasks into an entire event. From date nights to daily lunch breaks, I can confidently say that I can turn almost anything into something that feels special, or like an adventure.
Sometimes this is as simple as saving a favorite podcast for a long drive, or queuing up the perfect playlist while cleaning the house. Other times, it’s making a point to visit a new bakery or coffee shop on the way to doing an errand. No matter what I’m doing or where I’m going, you better believe I’m setting the entire scene. I mentioned this in my last mini podcast briefly, but there’s something about this type of planning that feels like decorating a room to me. Creating a mood through tiny details like smells, sounds, textures, and thinking about how I want to feel in a certain moment makes me feel excited, inspired, and creative — basically all things that make me feel like my best self. It’s why I loved getting dressed, I think, and making playlists, mapping out travel itineraries…I could go on. There’s something about it all that feels comforting and cozy to me, even if the scene I’m setting in my brain is just me going to mindlessly wander around the aisles of Target. Look, I’m not saying that I leave my home every single day as if I’m starring in my own romantic comedy. But I will say that the same idea applies to romanticizing the everyday that applies to most aspects of my life — the more intentional I am, the better I feel.
So while some might think of casually visiting an antique store on a Saturday afternoon, I’m building out the whole event. I’m dressing it up in my mind, adding the accessories and nail polish color and, well, everything. I’m mapping out nearby restaurants I want to try afterwards, and making note of any local estate sales and second-hand stores, too. I’m thinking about what kind of fancy coffee I can make for my to-go mug before I get in the car that morning. I’m checking the weather and searching for a new playlist that seems fitting. Something sunny? Something moody that pairs well with rain? I do the same thing with an outfit — what styles and colors and fabrics fit the occasion, the setting, my mood? If I don’t lay out my clothes the night before, they’re almost always planned out in my brain. Suddenly it’s not just a random series of choices, but an event. An entire scene. A mood board.
Now, I’m sure if we were to really break this down, we could all probably recognize that there’s something in this habit that suggests I may, perhaps, have a tiny issue with control, and that that’s the root of my predisposition to romanticizing and adventurizing (I’m claiming this as a word) essentially any single day of my life. That would be fair enough. Do I feel anxious when I am not able to control most aspects of things or when something inevitably goes wrong? You bet. But, hey, that’s what therapy is for. Today, though, I’d mostly like to discuss the other root of my romanticizing tendencies: The 2007 film Because I Said So.
I was 14 when I first saw this movie, which stars Diane Keaton and Mandy Moore, so maybe that’s why it has lodged itself into my psyche just so (honestly, I feel like most things I was hyper-fixated on when I was 14 have stuck around — Twilight, most songs that made the Grey’s Anatomy soundtrack, etc… but I digress). I feel similarly about it as I do with movies like You’ve Got Mail and It’s Complicated. But it’s Because I Said So that has really just stuck, even though it’s not really as good of a movie in most ways. There were the obvious ways it appealed to me, of course: The wardrobe, the set design, Gabriel Macht. But there was one particular scene that I have never forgotten. It’s the opening scene of the movie. In it, Mandy Moore comes home to her loft after a long day at her catering job, makes a single bowl of pasta for herself (upon re-watching this scene it appears the recipe consists of plain pasta and approximately one pinch of Parmesan, which I have some questions about now…), and enjoys it with a delicious-looking glass of red wine. In the same scene, we see Diane Keaton do the same thing at her own home, which is equally cozy. Both of their apartments are quirky and colorful. A Van Morrison song plays in the background. It’s the quintessential romantic comedy moment in many different ways. A cliché, even. Watching the movie again, it’s key that what we’re supposed to take away from the scene is that both characters are alone in a way that is somehow depressing. And yet, even at 14, I remember my biggest takeaway being… I want a life like that. The smells, the colors, the sounds, the tastes… I wanted everything to be that warm, that comfortable.
Will my life look that that? I wondered. I’m sure what I meant then at least partially was: Will I look like Mandy Moore? Will I figure out a way to look like Mandy Moore and eat pasta? (It was 2007, ok? Carbs were enemy number one.). Will my house look like that? Will I dress like that? I’m sure back then I thought that my fascination with the entire scene was mostly about aesthetics, but of course, tastes change. My 2023 dream kitchen looks a whole lot different in my mind than it did in 2007. And yet, I still think about that movie, that scene. I thought for a long time that it made me dream of a life that looked cozy, adorable, curated. That, of course, I wanted to be the woman who looked effortlessly gorgeous after a grueling day at work, who opted for a homemade meal instead of take-out, whose kitchen looked like something out of (literally) a movie. But as I get older, I actually think it was something else. I think it made me want a life that was intentional. Not necessarily in how it looked, but how it felt.
We can’t mood board our whole lives, of course. If we did, and we were honest, we’d have to include all the uglier stuff, too, the stuff that’s harder to romanticize. Grief. Taxes. Ordering contacts at the last minute every single time you run out so you have pay for overnight shipping or you’ll run out and have to wear your glasses. (Why is this the single worst chore of adulthood?). Sometimes there’s just nothing to romanticize. Sometimes there’s plenty, but you just don’t feel like it. And trust me, I’m the number one believer in feeling the depths of a bad mood and acknowledging it instead of trying to hoist yourself out of it with some toxic positivity bullshit. But for the rest of the moments — the lunch breaks and the Target runs and the grocery shopping and date nights and all the other boring stuff in between… yeah, I think that if there’s a way to make it into something special, something that feels romantic or eventful or like an adventure, then I’m going to do that. And, yes, maybe it’s a little bit of my control freak brain working overtime that makes me want to orchestrate these beautiful, cozy moments out of nothing all the time, but honestly? I kind of like that part of me.
I like that I can get excited about making myself dinner. Or treating myself to McDonald’s Diet Coke. Or going grocery shopping. Or drinking coffee in the morning just like I do every other day of the year. Or, well, anything. On the surface, I guess it all looks like it would otherwise. But to me, it feels special. Exciting. Like I’m designing my life and filling it with tiny things I love instead of waiting for it all to happen to me, to tell me what it’s going to feel like and look like and taste like and smell like instead of the other way around.
To answer 14-year-old Olivia’s questions, as it turns out, I do not look like Mandy Moore. My kitchen does not look like her or Diane Keaton’s character’s kitchen in Because I Said So and, in fact, it probably won’t look anything close to my dream kitchen for years to come. I do make a mean bowl of pasta, though, and I (mostly) don’t feel guilty about it now. I listen to podcasts while I cook more often than Van Morrison, but sometimes on Friday nights, I put on my coziest sweats, light a candle, listen to Hozier, and try out a new recipe with a glass of wine. It’s not exactly like the scene in the movie, no, but it’s not that different, either. Like the rest of my life, not every part of it is gorgeous or perfect, but it’s mine. And if my greatest talent is making all of it as feel cozy and warm and worthy of the opening scene of a romantic comedy as possible, well, I’m going to do that every time.
For this week’s mini podcast, I’ll talk a little bit more about Because I Said So and my favorite ways to ‘dress up’ boring, everyday events, and I’ll also be (finally!) answering some questions I’ve received recently — things like if this is our forever home, how it’s been making friends in a rural area, where I’m currently at in the book-writing-and-publishing process, impostor syndrome in writing/how to get started in writing, my go-to habits for brightening up a cold/gloomy/bad day, and more!
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I love this essay, Olivia, and super coincidentally was listening to Van Morrison already while reading. Manifesting those romcom moments!
My outlook now is that though life is long, life can be short. I don’t care how trite it is to work to make life magical and romantic even when it feels like the millionth time we’ve experienced that part of our routine. It’s like dancing in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil, post-dinner snack runs for late night movie treats, driving a different route home so you can listen to that same song on repeat a few more times, or that first coffee on the sofa once you’ve changed into your lounging pyjamas. It’s all beautiful in its own low stakes yet pleasure-centric and small celebrations kind of way. As my husband’s grandmother told me earlier this year, “It’s not just choosing joy, it’s choosing life. You’re making the most of what you’ve got while you’ve got it.”
We’ve got to give ourselves permission to create our own glimmers and to share that with other people, too. Making the ordinary extraordinary is a precious gift we can give to ourselves and to others. It really does feel like that ‘la dolce vita’ energy -- drinking the good wine at home in the yard or on the stoop, smelling blossoms on the air, switching on the fairy lights, and adding more cheese to the cheese board.
It makes me think of About Time as well 🥹🥰.
Well it makes me happy I’m not the only person who had Mandy Moore-aspirations as a teen 😂
I love your ritual of beautifying the experience of making a new recipe. A therapist once told me that you have to figure out how to dress up the small moments so you have parts of your daily routine to look forward to.