so long february, so long thirty-[redacted]

oscars, books, all the skinny people

Last month, a new friend asked if I’d ever been punched in the face. In an attempt to be helpful, someone had ended up almost slamming a door in my face, resulting in my own ever-so-uncharitable (but not unjustified!) remark. Maybe because I’m short, I always assume I’m immune from eavesdroppers. From my limited height, everything I utter feels sotto voce.¹ But the question of whether I’ve ever been punched in the face is one I’ve heard before—a concerning number of times—from headshaking friends and family alike, so odds are good, I suppose, that I’m louder than I realize. Still: the answer, for now, remains no.²

I mention this because the first few months of the year feel a little like getting punched in the face. At least in terms of needing to lie down for extended periods of time.

Like, my forced coexistence with the month of February baffles me. Granted, I don’t see an alternative other than a self-imposed coma, but it is laughable that every year the sun takes a full month off and we’re expected to simply keep trucking along. I’m never more on the verge of a catastrophically life-altering decision than I am during those 28 days. Don’t even get me started on fucking leap years.³ Like oh we couldn’t add an extra day to October? November, even? October 32nd has such a gorgeous ring to it, and that’s coming from someone who doesn’t even like even numbers.

A bit of a catch-up today, then, since we’ve finally emerged from the doldrums of winter.

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It doesn’t feel like it because I started writing this potentially a month ago, based on my level of attachment to this open tab, but February’s been done for a bit. Now that it’s not raining every second of every day, I’ve resumed my obsessive little walks. Then, once a week, I’ve been semi-regularly going to trivia with the same friend who asked about my face’s experience getting punched.⁴ The other day I found out that one of the trivia team members was born in 2001, like fully the space odyssey year, and I felt like Methuselah. Sorry, I just wasn’t aware 2001 was a real year on which people started their lives.

Imagine the exact opposite of this, and that’ll give you an idea of the weather on my birthday.

My birthday was this past weekend. I was born before 2001. I celebrated turning one year older with new and old friends, just enough indulging to prompt minimal to moderate regret in the morning, and the kind of (literal) déluge Louis XV predicted would follow his demise. All in all, a success.⁵

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Speaking of aging: happy belated anniversary to this newsletter about people’s growing lack of directional awareness. Enough time has now passed that I can finally reveal I wrote it directly following a (perfectly nice) date confusing the city’s two main arteries when walking me home. Sorry to this man.

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I’ve taken up an obnoxious little photography hobby, which is funny because once a month or so I’ll get my photos developed and send them out to my friends and they have to pretend they’re good and not wildly out of focus or overexposed or framed by a drunk toddler on the run. I’ll probably write more about this soon.

This is one of the photos. Shoutout to the balloon man for giving us some color.

Been reading a lot and feeling weird about my body, so you know, same old, same old. Back in October I wrote about how skinny everyone’s getting and how many weight loss ads I kept getting on Instagram and I had some pushback because famously you can only publicly comment on diet culture if you’ve been fat. Lol. Anyway, I watched most of the Oscar nominated films but I haven’t kept up with the awards ceremonies too much because quite frankly, the shrinking bodies on the red carpets have been insanity-inducing. Like, we all see the jutting collarbones, yes? There are a couple of actresses in particular who’ve been steadily disappearing under our noses and every time someone comments on their gowns (beautiful gowns!) without acknowledging the overwhelming thinness, my right eye twitches. I won’t write any more about this.⁶

This is one I only sent to select individuals (and now you) because between the blurriness and the darkness it’s like ok inability to pick a struggle noted.

On books, though. I’m doing the year-long The Brothers Karamazov readalong hosted by Henry Eliot. The novel is broken up into twelve books; theoretically, we’re meant to be reading a book a month, and I can tell you I appreciate the symmetry of such a plan, while also telling you that I’ve just begun the eighth book. Antisocial behavior, I know, but the thing is this is my fourth time starting this massive tome and I am determined to actually finish it this year. Slow reading will not get me there, I fear—my inertia has to work in tandem with habit.

Other recent reads of note: Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence (I was deeply embarrassed not to have read it sooner, a feeling that only grew when I turned the last page … wealthy women drawing from a deep reservoir of literary talent … a lot of today’s girlies could stand to learn something, I’ll say that!); Ayşegul Savaş’s masterful Walking on the Ceiling (I’m working on becoming an expert on literary—and actual—millennial ennui, making Savaş required reading); and Tessa Hadley’s slim The Party (despite being published in 2024, it reminded me so much of Muriel Spark’s The Girls of Slender Means (complimentary), which in turn reminded me I need to urgently catch up on the Sparkian oeuvre). I’ve read other things, too, a girl can’t be expected to subsist on Russian literature alone—I’ll write more about it soon.⁷

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Ramadan ends this week which means that for the first time since February I won’t have the benefit of my best friend waking up early enough to respond to my morning crashouts. Long distance, man. If you’re lucky enough to live in the same time zone as your best friend, count your BLESSINGS. Because sometimes by the time she wakes up my existentialism has evaporated and frankly, what is the point of a normal conversation with one’s oldest friend.

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I’d planned to end this little entry telling you the story of the barista who hates me for reasons I’ve thus far been unable to identify and how being openly disdained by a stranger despite being at worst unobjectionable and at best a fucking delight has added a bit of a thrill to my life, but I’ll save it for next time. Something to look forward to.

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1. You rarely hear about the Napoleon complex from a female perspective—we exist.

2. 2026 is still young, though. We’re not even through Q1.

3. One of my most irrational sources of annoyance is a full-grown adult telling me haha I’m turning eight this year like a February 29 birthday gives you license to be overly whimsical. It doesn’t! Try being born on January 2, or sharing a birthday with a parent (or worse, a younger sibling). Then we’ll talk.

4. She also reads the newsletter, so hi, J!

5. If you’re like omg Clara I didn’t get you anything! It’s okay: you can literally upgrade your subscription right now. There’s a link in the footer.

6. Unless I change my mind and I do.

7. This is a note to self that my quarter-end reading recap is coming up.