Hope everyone is doing amazing and cherishing the last weeks of summer, even though it feels like it’s already over in cloudy and rainy Amsterdam. I have been away from home for almost two months, around the UK, Germany, and Greece. Which sounds very glamorous, but there were definitely numerous menty bs (not pictured). But I think the most important takeaway was that I FINALLY started to overline my lips (lip products not included cause I don’t think I’ve nailed it yet….)

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However, now that the tour is over, I am actually not bumped out by this weather at all. I just missed my tiny flat and my friends and making my own coffee in my grumpy espresso machine. Is the autumn arc propaganda catching up with me?

Taking all of the above into account, the last two months I’ve been traveling a LOT, and along the way, I saw, ate, and used many things worth mentioning. I have been feeling incredibly inspired by this whole period of travelling. I tried to have as much with me to document & write, and maybe it will also help other creatives out there as well!

Without further ado, this is our very second Uncommon List.

Uncommon Goods

As per usual, I have discovered life-changing stationery.

For quite some time, I’ve wanted a leather traveller’s notebook. During my trips, I always visited smaller leather goods shops, but it’s unfortunately very much outside my budget. Then I thought I could make it myself and watched a couple of tutorials online, which sent me down a whole whittling tutorial rabbit hole, so I had to stop.

When I was in London I visited one of my favourite shops, and was browsing the notebooks, and since I wanted a sort of cover for my actual notebook, I stumbled across the brand storage.it, which essentially serves as a cover as well? And also has pockets for your pens and stuff? And you can refill it infinitely? Sold!

Another thing I got that looks amazing, but it’s not a good one to wear in the rocky and slippery greek islands is miista mules. I have a love/hate relationship with the brand (miista story time when), but I feel like I don’t have to explain myself further for these ones. I love a complicated and pretentious shoe.

And finally, if you’ve never heard of the Greek brand Korres, please allow me to introduce you! It’s a beauty brand with Mediterranean-inspired, natural products that smell like memories. The perfume I love the most and finished during my vacation is called Philosia, which I would say smells like sultry sunkissed skin.

Uncommon Screens

I watched two amazing films this month, both quite introspective.

The first one is a movie that came out recently, The Invite. I have two things to say: 1) Penelope Cruz is the most hauntingly beautiful woman on earth, and 2) incredibly quotable dialogue. It’s quite lighthearted but tackles deep and human themes like marriage & sexual expression that occupy my mind quite often, even though I’ll cross that bridge when/if I get there. The second one worth mentioning is called To Die For and it’s an iconic movie from the 90s starring Nicole Kidman. It’s about a very ambitious woman who does questionable things to get where she wants to be and I’ll leave it at that.

Uncommon Reads

Ok so I’ve been reading quite a bit this month. I reread The Bell Jar, which I had read for the first time when I was 20. Now, at 28, the book sent me into an even worse spiral. I made a folder of my favourite quotes, which I use and abuse as I wish (aka quote in my Substack posts).

Other honorable mentions include: Englisch In Berlin, The Safekeep, and of course, Stacey Yu’s new novel, Kitten.

Uncommon Taste

I’m not one to pride myself on my cooking skills, especially when the most shared meal in my house is frozen pizza. But. I do take pride in curating recipes that genuinely will not make a fuss in the kitchen, minimum cutting and strictly one pot. In laziness we trust.

It’s a very refreshing and easy, lemony, wholesome Greek chickpea stew, and it is so nice for cozy nights and for hungover days. Here’s the recipe.

I also wanted to sneak in the cake I (didn’t bake) decorated bc August is birthday month….. I wrote all about it if you wanna read it…….

That’s all for this month!! If you end up trying some of the above, let me know; I’ll be so happy to hear.

See you for the next one!

Xxx

Eva

let me know if you use any of the above<3 love u

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It’s important, of course. What’s the message of everything I’ve learnt? Summarized in max twelve sugary cursive characters? There’s more to learn in oneself between twenty-five and thirty than one can learn in an entire life. Mostly on what not to do, and which advice to skip. And I guess knowing oneself deeply can be as cursed as being offensively unaware. It’s my birthday, and I put it on my calendar, as if I will ever become selfless enough to forget my own birthday.

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Ever since I’ve had access to the internet, I’ve become an expert in observing what others do in their lives. At asking questions and trying to answer them by myself. Unnecessary, and a burden to my consciousness. But I am happy most of the time. Satisfied. Even in love, once a week. Is that success worth bragging about? I am still deciding as I type.

As I scroll further down on my curated board, my skill consciousness catches up with my ambition. Maybe I am not ready to make a three-tier cake and handmade frosting from scratch. And maybe it doesn’t have to do with age, I truly never practiced before, I promise. Nonetheless, I write down all the ingredients, slip the note in my pocket, and slide my foot in my uncomfortable mules to make my way to the shops.

On my way there, I put on a podcast, because having strangers explain your feelings to you is instrumental to processing. It seems like the promise of detaching milestones from ages lies still further ahead. Maybe after thirty. So I will listen. People my age have bought homes. They have been pregnant. We say, she did xyz, and only at 22. Well, I was 22 too once, and I had big brains and confused sexuality. Success is so personal, yet we try to make it universal and one-size-fits-all. Why does time matter so much to someone with a timer? I know how to use it, but mostly snooze it. And my guests will be here regardless. Cake or not, quote or not.

However, I do wish I had lessons to share. But it feels phony. Is my life considered a success by the book? No. I don’t have many savings. I have never won an award. I’ve never been promoted. I only discovered retinol last month. And as of recently, a source of income is selling tote bags from past trade shows on Vinted. But I still talk to my parents every week. I have friends who run errands with me. Group chats that I never muted. I have a partner who buys me flowers. I do crafts every day. And I am aware that most of my problems come from the internet, because it somehow convinced me that the above is not enough.

Halfway through my podcast, I decide that I am being ungenuine. I can’t bake, and I can’t pretend to. I enter a patisserie and pick the thing closest to reference four. Plain white frosting, with plastic-looking cherries, chocolate filling and hazelnuts. Nested in a white cardboard box with a glossy exterior and thick velvety ribbons. Before he wraps it all up, he asks if there’s a message he should put on the cake. Unsure, I reply. On the way back home, I picked up red and plum purple decorating icing from the crafts shop.

Turning older feels so common. I guess it’s the oddball effect. Every birthday feels the same because I’ve practiced birthdays so often. Familiarity prevents excitement. So that’s how it’s gonna be from now on? Is this what making the cake was all about, breaking the monotony of growing older and wiser and hotter than ever? Well, now it feels all melted together. I could be 24. I could be 34.

I use candles for my cake, and I don’t count them because why are we counting. Time is highly manipulable. I can mold it like air-dry clay, and make little figurines of myself. I can put one in Paris with a fancy art curator job, one in Athens with a tiny beachside bar in an unexplored neighborhood, or one in LA, locked deep in the writer’s room at a Hollywood studio. But, as Sylvia wrote, I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air. And once in a while, when I choose to lift it up, the figurines can dry into something fully formed, and not look like something a four-year-old made. And I guess here I am.

All the guests are here, chatting and drinking and giggling. As a present, I get a candle, a body mist, opera tickets, and Clarice Lispector’s last novel.

I love reading things I don’t understand and then trying to decipher them and then being upset when I can’t. I cherish staying with the feeling of awe. I want to be able to describe all the things I see and feel. And even though my native language is considered one of the richest, I still don’t have the right words for some of them. So I research beyond, and I borrow them from people I admire.

Back in the kitchen, with all the guests mingling in the other room. Standing tall on the kitchen counter, I squeeze the frosting tube, and lyrically move my hands in unison. I stare at the cake conspicuously and smirk.

I am grateful grapefruit.

Thanks Bjork.

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Life lessons for relative success

-friendships are sacred

-never say yes if you don’t mean it

-can’t compare yourself to people who come from money

-crying in the bus is more healing than crying in your bedroom

-mental health walks are called mental health walks for a reason

-envy is direction

-your parents can recommend you songs better than spotify ever could

-not all friends can be travel buddies

-your degree is not your profession

-find your anchors early

-what’s meant to be won’t be if you don’t act on it

-cities without wasps are objectively better

-typos are sexy

-if you have ideas and don’t act on them, god might give them to prince

-crafts & hobbies teach you more about yourself

-so do your exes, why do you think they are exes?

if you enjoyed my writing, why not let me know? <3

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I see the wobbly ship splashing water spectacularly on the men in white suits on the edge of the rocky coast, and I hear the loud, low-pitched noise that passenger boats usually make when they enter a port. The one that only days earlier had me rushing down the slippery stairs with my worn-out carry-on, all in bedazzled flip-flops, with most of my hair whooshed on my mouth. I was the first one to arrive on the tiny island, already days earlier. I didn’t tell anyone because I am supposed to run the company I just launched, and I decided last minute that some days alone here would help me find inspiration for something yet unrevealed to me. It’s the summer of rebranding unemployment as self-employment.

I am not sure which piece of popular media convinced society that staying alone with one’s thoughts is the cure to every problem, but the solo vacation seemed endless and every hour alarmed me with a new worry. In a futile attempt to explore new expression mediums, I asked my dad to lend me his camcorder, which was unused since 2013, but the battery died immediately, so I couldn’t even play with that. The most exciting thing that happened was Bjork’s Echolalia outfit on my Instagram feed, and me gifting my lotus-shaped claw clip to a little girl who ran up to me to compliment it so earnestly. Other than that, I was strolling in a hot-pink pareo, feeling irritated by the infinite sticky sand on my screens, and googling things like onychotillomania whilst drowsy on antihistamines. I think I am ready to face people again.

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We come in three batches, and I have been waiting for the second one for around fifteen minutes. I had a secret wish of filming the moment of their arrival as if it’s a documentary of people who experience Greek islands for the first time. But that would be staged, because it’s now the tenth year we step foot on this port, and also my battery is dead. No one expected this to become an unspoken tradition because we all live far and have extremely busy, important lives and arrive in different batches for our yearly vacation.

I see them approaching, hair in a bun, washed-out denim shorts and red-stained linen skirts, patterned scrunchies and flower clips; their figures grow bigger as a smile draws on my face. We hug. In a narrow, sultry street we walk impatiently to someone’s house with two double beds and a foldable couch, and we change into bikinis. I ask about the ferry ride, and they say they all took dramamines and slept, and that they’ll do an excellent job of hiding their sleepiness.

We brainstorm on which beach to go next. No one is tired but me, who didn’t just take an eight-hour ferry ride, who doesn’t have a job that provides an income, who spends days on a solo vacation only to scroll on celebrity feeds, who complains and stalks and compl – Bring the camera, A. interrupts my thoughts. She announces she has a surprise for me and I fish the camcorder out of my suitcase once again.

We’re at the beach before I know it because on the way we did a roundup of last year’s most spicy news; someone broke up, someone didn’t, someone got a new job, and someone got a new job done. I didn’t know any of that.

But I know other stuff. I know the cadence of their words, the smiley intonation of their sentences, the anticipated gestures of their arms emphasizing point a instead of point b, the vocabulary used to describe angst and the lack thereof. All the boring stories behind their wallet trinkets and resin rings, their coffee orders and their preferred hair removal methods. The D&G polka dot hand-me-down from the older sister, the suede pants worn twice after being destroyed in an unanticipated September shower. I remember all the birthdays without putting them on a calendar. The phone number of their mother’s landline, whom we mourned, and still do. The sequence of their exes, their flaws and surprise cameos in their lives. I remember their math grades, and which uni they would have secured if they were higher. Which class bore them, and which class tore them. I know all of that, and vice versa.

The beach is jam-packed and smells like Nivea sunscreen and wet fish nets. We can’t seem to find a spot unless we all shape a tight circle bed under our umbrella and lay on each other’s laps or asses, which we will, like so many other times. And we stay here, bodies breathing like one, eyes shut and sun piercing body parts, disarmed under the humid air that weighs us down and allows us to coexist once again. Five girls who used to fight over UNO cards and lovers with acne, listen to Lady Gaga and Hannah Montana, whose grandmas called each other to gossip and to pick us up. Whose character changed and was corrupted and then improved again, but now it’s all anchored in the same sea and the same people, because our rituals only end when our silence is mistaken for indifference. But it’s our cultivated privilege to know better.

I ask A. why I brought the camcorder, and she hands me a small white cardboard box with a green ribbon that reads the name of our neighborhood’s bakery. I spoke to your dad, she says; it’s a battery for your camcorder, so you better make us famous now. I hug her and thank her and reply that I am not an influencer. Thank God, we have enough, she scoffs. Fair.

I start filming vertically the inside of the salt-stained umbrella where our pareos hang, and then turn it 180 to the wrinkled cotton towels contrasting the beige sand, the phones with the broken screens, the books in English in Greek. I zoom in and out on the titles, and then their faces and their eyelashes and their squinty eyes. We do the crossword, one gets mad because the other one gets more words than her. We know enough to stop and jump in the water. They run out first, and I follow them with the lens until my camera’s zoom is too shitty to catch them all disappearing in the sparkly sea.

I join them, and swim like a dog, the first swim of the vacation that lets my body flow faster than my mind. As we are standing in a formed circle, strategizing our night-out with our feet kicking the water to keep us afloat, I push my belly up, stretch my feet and arms, and stare at the sky. I don’t need to google stuff for the next days, or think of the future or my self/unemployment. I only listen to the muffled sounds of them talking about hometown gossip and smile the same way when I saw them at the port.

I just need to stay afloat and swim like a dog with the same people, and it’s not even that deep, actually. I know the sea very well.

This piece was a really special one to write. I always think that part of who we are is because we are being held accountable by the people who have known us our whole lives, but are still pushing us forward. Also excuse me for sneaking some pics from my vacation, I loved them too much hehe.

if you enjoyed my piece, why not let me know? <3

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I was reading my essay from a while back, called Hot Girls Hate Their Jobs, which I now remember writing semi-tipsy at a bar after failing my driver’s exam, with yet another job rejection marinating in my inbox. I barely remember the company, the role, but I do remember that morale was particularly low that day, to put it lightly. And then the day after, and then after again. The job market does that to you, quite ruthlessly.

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It was not the first time my job had made me miserable. I remember feeling lost in my career the minute I was asked to do the same thing more than twice. Right after graduating, I jumped into the corporate world, with the naive conviction that it would answer big life questions. Surprisingly, even though I used to be particularly creative during uni, and I always had a healthy relationship with creativity, it was the first thing I dropped when I got that job. It was admittedly not an easy one, working long hours at a chemical lab, and for really stressful, and time-critical projects (circa 2020 🦠). This neglect of creativity kept going for five years. Funnily, I sometimes had lash-outs about how little I was creating, and I randomly bought a small piece of equipment as a temporary fix. By the end of that season of my life, I had accumulated a shameful amount of musical equipment I could not use, and visual mediums I could not manipulate.

This year, I made the conscious decision to brand it as the Most Creative Year of My Life (highlighted and underlined in my journal). The expectations (completely self-imposed), were, of course, quite high. I didn’t want to waste time until I felt ready. I had so many leftover painting supplies from my creative years, and so I made my first paintings; then I started a writing course, a perfumery course, even a screenwriting course. I was creating mindlessly, and without pressure to make something nice, or even fit my previous style. Throughout this renaissance, which happened after turning 27 (not so randomly), I had various conversations with my friends.

Turns out, many could relate. If you are a creative person stuck in any corporate job/one that does not leverage your creativity, you will burst at some point. I saw it unfolding with many friends, who might not even understand that a creative outlet is what they need. We live in Amsterdam, which is home to so many creative hubs. So if we have so many opportunities to find creative communities and leverage these creative outlets, why are we not acting on it?

I already had momentum from simply acting on all my creative thoughts, so instead of sitting with the question, I asked around. I got quite obsessed with the idea, and I think that having a nothing-to-lose attitude made these interviews incredibly easy. I started talking to people like me, understanding their struggles and their pains with creativity and time and resources. At the same time, I began asking providers of those spaces if they’ve been noticing a trend.

This gave me an idea for a platform for creatives. But I couldn't think of how to act on it. I began listening to many podcasts and books where entrepreneurs discuss how they came up with their idea, how they got started, and what mistakes they made. Even though I still had no idea what I was doing, I felt that none of them did in the beginning either.

I started working on my favourite part: the branding! I took inspiration from brands and artists and writers that I admire, and I think are aligned with the values of the company I’d like to build. The brand name came to me as an idea when I was still at my old job. I started working on the logo, and I had multiple iterations in my notebook and on Procreate. I knew I wanted something inviting and whimsical and open, and I think I made it.

Then I decided to work on having a certain crowd before launching. I began posting about things I wish I had seen as a creative stuck in corporate. But then I thought, why limit ourselves? I started doing creative events, creative book clubs, upcycling workshops. It was the most fulfilling part so far, because I really felt that we were working on a community.

Slowly, my vision started becoming a bit clearer. One delusional night, I applied for an accelerator program in London. I was supposed to film a video where I explained what the startup is, and it was the first time I uttered the words “I am the founder of”. After some interviews, I got in. And this was the push for me to justify quitting my nine-to-five and follow my dream job, which is completely made up, and it doesn’t pay me anything.

Now, between London and Amsterdam, I spend most of my time thinking about creative direction, assets, and talking to other creatives and studios. One day I am a salesperson, the other day I am a brand strategist, and then a product manager. I feel so inspired every day by what I am doing, and what there is yet to be done, and I cannot really explain what’s pushing me forward. But I have never felt this way in any other job I’ve had, so I guess that’s a good sign.

On the less glamorous side, I am always on my phone and stressed about running out of money, but at least I have complete ownership of what I am doing. I am, by no means, an expert in entrepreneurship, and this is my first time as a founder. I know there are many lows that I am yet to experience, and it’s hard enough itself, let alone as a female founder. But I am still bottling that honeymoon feeling with this post, and maybe you can share it with me.

The platform is called Five To Nine, and we are going live this Monday, the 27 of July, in Amsterdam and Rotterdam :) We might not yet be in your city — but we are planning to soon!

(if you’re curious, follow us on IG: your_fivetonine)

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The last relic of my early twenties in Amsterdam weighs down my leather tote that keeps slipping off my shoulder. Uncertain if it would have to return back to its dedicated spot in my nightstand drawer after two weeks or two years. But that’s because limbo states are as amorphous as life can get, and they carry doubts of the past and untold wishes for the future. Highly theoretical, shy on action, but with immediate decisions to be made, and countless consequences to be lived.

Well, until then. Stretching time can be my new hobby. I can watch ice cream melt and make my fingers sticky and lick it back when it’s all liquid. I can paint my nails blue and chip away the polish when it’s dry and stiff. I can buy sandalwood incense and light it on the rocky beach until the wind snuffs it out.

In my first days in a city that tests one’s patience, I wake up before the alarm. A big life is supposed to start, but not just yet. Besides the relic, the tote contains everything one might need, ever; phone numbers of most people I know, half-filled ruled notebooks, three different brands of paracetamol. She weighs at least two kilos, and I let her leave red pressure marks on my naked shoulder, stretching my skin the way I attempt to stretch the time. We’ll get cheap filter coffee, expensive charger adapters and transparent plasters for my throbbing blisters. We’ll hop on different buses without checking the number, and when we miss the right stops, we’ll think they weren’t the right ones. We’ll stop only when the neighbourhood feels sketchy, or when the blisters pop.

I do have a clear reason to be in this city, the success of which is heavily reliant on my own self-discipline. Cultivated over maths homework, later clashed with social media and hardened into empty ambition. As a result, I found myself being a stranger in a city of strangers, for a second time in my twenties. London is beautiful in ways I can’t explain yet, because it’s only a blank canvas. I have two and a half friends, and possibly three spots I’ve been to more than once. The parks are vast and welcoming, and the most predictable thing is the numbers of runners per minute. Predictability feels nice in a city otherwise so random.

Across the Thames, I sit on a bench next to a grandpa who is completing the last rows of his crosswords. I notice his glance taking turns consulting the empty squares and the fluffy clouds in the sky, as if they hide the answer. The bench stinks, and there are cherry pits and cigarette butts tucked in the corners. The faint smell of urine urges me to stand up and keep walking but I am convinced there’s no better place to be other than beside an old man doing a crossword on a stinky bench.

Who else knows how to stretch time in unknown cities. Writers. Influencers. Pigeons. I resist the urge to google all my thoughts and remember a tiny paperback nesting back in my childhood room in Athens. A man walking around Paris, thinking about writing, creative fulfilment, and meeting Gertrude Stein. Hemingway, A Moveable Feast.

I take the fifty-minute bus instead of the twenty-minute tube, climb up the stairs without losing my balance, and settle on the front seat. It feels like I am watching one of those livestreams of European cities. In my case, I can pick the soundtrack too. Rosalia, Lena Platonos, old FKA twigs. Comfort sounds to dress the expansion of time in the bus. I’ll get there eventually. I like a sense of purpose in this limbo time. I get off the bus to go to the book store. After a round on the ground floor I am told that A Moveable Feast is sold out. I wonder how many people in London like to stretch time.

Back in my new flatshare, J. and the cat are having dinner. She’s going for drinks with her friend and she asks me to join. She thinks her friend and I will get along because we’re both Greek and have strong personalities. What is it that makes loneliness appear strong?

I agree to meet them at the closest pub, change into my flip flops, and leave my tote with my phone behind. They ask me where I live and I say I’m in between places. I am glad no one follows up. The group is abstract and convivial and syncopated and most talks are interrupted by the World Cup match. I make up an excuse about travelling fatigue and go back to my room. I look at myself in a mirror with a polaroid tucked in the bottom corner, and notice that the red marks from the bag are faded. I crave my phone.

One e-mail from Hello Fresh, one Duolingo push notification, and twenty-two messages from a run club group chat that I joined seven months ago and never silenced because I like the sound of a text. I take my phone and text four people “how’s life<3”. Nothing like a city of strangers to stretch time.

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I claim to be what people on the internet call multipassionate. In practice, it means that I spend my Sundays mourning the road not taken. Once, a woman who tried to squeeze it all in. A scientist with no citations, a pianist with a modest repertoire, an actress with no lines in student films, a magazine illustrator who “doesn’t quite get our vision”. What remains unsaid from the above follows a chastening pattern: find new craft, obsess over new craft for months, talk to everyone about enrolling in a course that cultivates said craft, let it be buried under life stones. Only to pick it up again years later and announce “how much i’ve missed it”.

My phone is ringing on the other side of the room, and I jump over piles of wrinkled halter tops and scattered ballet flats to pick it up. Maria calls from an island in Greece, and she firmly advises against the craft pouch. She says the craft pouch makes me jumpy and that I should pick only one item from the craft pouch. Maria is kind. A woman can’t have it all, but a woman can’t have none.

Her advice reflects the algorithm. It has attempted to explain to me multiple times what’s wrong with me. And lately, what isn’t. ADHD self-diagnosis tips thrown left and right. Terms like polymaths, thought daughters, interest-based nervous systems, non-linear career hacks. A woman on the internet once suggested that passions come in seasons, and your autumn self is different to your summer self. What’s the game with the holiday self? Because every time I have to unpack my unused crayons from my suitcase, it’s a humiliation ritual.

Maria, carefully secured on my kitchen counter, narrates her days on the island, which she lives to the fullest. She just had her night dip. Tomorrow, she’ll wake up early and have coffee next to the morning sea. She’ll identify ’80s Greek pop singers in her crossword, she will glaze another ceramic mug, and she’ll fish it out of the kiln two weeks later. She’ll clock in for her souvenir shop shift, she’ll talk to tourists, some less rude than others, and she’ll have cooked fish, greek salad, and a beer for dinner. She’ll hop on a scooter and reach the higher point of the island; she’ll stargaze. She’ll do it all over again tomorrow, because this season she chose this version of herself.

She asks when I can visit, and I reply snarkily, “When you let me bring my craft pouch”. She says I do too much, and I argue that there are people on the internet doing even more. She claims they’re all lying, and I reply that I know. Or if they don’t, they started long before me. I guess the caveat of being a jack of all trades is that you really are a master of none. Few have managed to defy the saying, Da Vinci or Donald Glover, Lady Gaga – wonder if they also followed any advice and focused on seasons. Artists with a niche are enviable. Musicians who’ve been producing since seventeen, painters who outgrow their skills every year, textile artists who craft for actual collections. Because a craft takes focus to master, which life (or ourselves) insists on diluting.

Acquiring a niche is hard, and as much as I have tried, I have failed. But then again, I didn’t try hard enough, because being multipassionate is my superpower. Somehow I have accumulated more hobbies and side-projects than a 24 h day allows. I live in a state of perpetual guilt; guilty for neglecting the things I begin, and guiltier when I admit defeat and move on. I see them staring back at me: the DJ console for that one birthday gig (if i can even call it that), the empty cupcake trays, the musky perfumery essential oils. All souvenirs of self-induced distraction to settle on the one thing we are all supposed to do: acquire a palatable LinkedIn title.

Facing what feels like mediocrity as a multipassionate person is exhausting. So I followed the internet’s advice. Designing a life that allows for all these hobbies feels indulgent and precarious, because bills need to be paid and relatives need to be appeased. And dabbling in every hobby comes with a discovery tax, which I’ve paid generously.

What does it all amount to then? A marketplace listing for a used sewing machine, a rolling Skillshare subscription, and this essay?

I wrap up packing, and ignoring Maria’s advice, I shove everything in the pouch. I fill in paperwork for the trip; it’s hard to choose a title for myself. There’ve been plenty; scientist, painter, girl who attempts to sing in the fifth octave. Maybe I will revisit them one day, they are not dead, but none truly prevails. I’m testing the waters with each and every one of them, hoping for the one that feels a bit stickier each season.

I wake up three minutes before my alarm goes off, and I get up immediately. By the time I reach airport security, I realize that my craft purse was left on the kitchen counter, right next to Maria’s face. I feel waves of disappointment flowing through my body, which disappear by the time I am sitting on my window seat. I glance outside, making peace with the fact that it’s just my thoughts for the coming thirteen hours and the coming two weeks. Honestly, it’s not that serious

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Hello angels!

As I was taking the last sips of burnt coffee at my corporate job—small-talking my way through my notice month—I had what I believe is a genius (and unoriginal) idea: a curated list of everything I’ve been loving lately. Music, food, products, films, books, and pretty much anything I can’t stop talking about to my friends. While I love a deeply personal essay, a reflection, a stream of consciousness, I also love writing about things that make my days brighter and more whimsical. Maybe they make yours too!

May has, of course, been a crazy month. I quit my job, got into a startup accelerator to launch my creative platform (more on that soon), and spent two weeks in Japan, flip-flopping between cities significantly larger than tiny Amsterdam. Along the way, I saw, listened to, drank, and used many things worth mentioning.

So, let’s begin with the very first Uncommon List.

Uncommon Goods

This month, I’ve been obsessed with stationery.

Actually, I’ve always been obsessed with stationery, but this time it’s because I got a new notebook. I’ve been doing The Artist’s Way for a few weeks now, and I’ve already filled an entire notebook with morning pages. While in Barcelona, I wandered into a bookstore and picked up a gorgeous Yves Klein blue Leuchtturm notebook that is so bright and always pops in my bag. And then, in Japan, I bought the Penco bullet pen in white that I now keep in my wallet for any stuck-in-transit writing emergencies.

Another important Japan find: my very first pair of Miyake pants, which somehow cost only €50 (!!!!). I’m still figuring out how to style them. Not for the weak.

Uncommon Sounds

Last year, I discovered Smerz during a tram ride to my dreadful job. The first track I heard was You Got Time and I Got Money, and I remember instantly feeling like I was coming home slightly intoxicated after a party, after snogging someone I’d hoped would end up spending the night with me, only to part ways before anything could happen. It’s a very specific feeling, which I have always cherished whenever it came (especially if on vacation). Big loves, or losses, who knows.

I saved the song and, on the ride home from work, listened to the rest of the album Big City Life. It’s SO GOOD. There is a certain doomed hopefulness to their music—or, in the words of Shaad D’Souza for Pitchfork, “melancholy distilled into a potent moonshine.” (No one writes about music better than music journalists.)

In any case, Smerz released a gorgeous single at the beginning of May called Spring Summer—just weeks before Charli XCX released SS26 – What’s up with the fashion-coded titles? The detached melancholic vocals hit particularly hard while wandering the streets of Tokyo: a lonely soundtrack for a lonely girl in a lonely city. The EP creative is also very on-brand.

While in Japan, I also went through a city-pop phase. I spent several evenings listening to Midnight Pretenders while walking through packed zebra crossings in central Tokyo.

Uncommon Screens

May has been a slow month for film and TV. However, during both intercontinental flights, I did a long-overdue Girls rewatch. I spent most of the flight mansplaining every scene to my boyfriend using insights generously handed to me from Famesick. He liked it! We won!! The rewatch also gave me a renewed appreciation for Lena Dunham’s commitment to funky character names. Mimi-Rose? Thomas-John? Incredible work. Although Booth Jonathan remains my personal favourite.

Uncommon Reads

For a while, I felt like the last person on earth who hadn’t read Pachinko, but I finally did!

Reading it while travelling through Japan added an interesting layer to the experience. It made me more aware of some of the country’s darker historical realities and gave context to places I was seeing every day. It is a beautiful intergenerational saga of a Korean family who start a new life in Japan.

Beyond books, I’ve (naturally) spent an embarrassing number of hours on Substack lately and came across some excellent essays. One favourite was We Don’t Deserve the Personal Essay Boom by Kate Lindsay, about how quickly readers are willing to judge, dismiss, or resent writers and creators who choose to share personal details online.

Uncommon Taste

Is it okay to bring up Japan one more time… I am so sorry. Okay, it’s not a super big thing in Europe, but in Japan, you can get unsweetened iced tea everywhere! And it’s so refreshing. I always picked iced jasmine tea and it’s delicious. I brought some here to make it myself. I wish we had something similar in Europe (free business idea – on me<3).

I hope you enjoyed this little collection of recommendations and monthly favourites.

Let me know if you end up trying, reading, listening to, or watching any of them.

Hugs and kisses <3

Uncommon Sense

The flight to Osaka from Amsterdam comes in two parts: the first one is can-not-feel-my-legs long, the second one, not long enough to complain. Naturally, I am stuck in the middle seat for the first one. In Seat A, there is a woman who doesn’t utter a word. She watches The Lobster, Shrek One, Two, and Three, in no specific order. We have a silent agreement to take turns on the armrest every two hours and never make eye contact. In Seat B sits the man I open my heart to on the weekends and after work. I convince him to watch Girls with me, and somewhere towards the end of season one, he falls asleep. I, who have successfully napped four times in my life, ruminate instead.

Some days before the flight, I watched Marty Supreme. The soundtrack is now playing through my headphones, making my banal, non-window-seat stoic glance feel a tiny bit more cinematic. For those of you who haven’t watched the film: Marty is an aspiring professional ping-pong player, and, long story short, at some point in the film, he needs to get to Japan. He spends his whole life — and one entire night — shamelessly throwing himself into situations in pursuit of it. He’s cocky and, at times, unlikeable, but he’s so obsessed with his craft, with making it to the championship, with leaving everything behind.

The kind of hustle that eventually circles back into humiliation leaves behind a strange sense of possibility, until reality settles in and you realize that leaving everything behind is rarely as spectacular as you imagined it would be. Regardless, before my own trip to Japan, in pursuit of escape — or something similar to that, I quit my job.

It took me longer than I’d like to admit to come to terms with the fact that it was a dead end. I kept trying to drill new ways through the walls, but unlike Marty, I did not have a specific craft, nor a specific passion guiding my every move. What I did have, though, was a burning desire to escape. I realized that all this time, I had been longing for an excuse for a not-so-logical decision. The character-defining, theatrical need for a dramatic exit. And above all, a reasonable excuse — one good enough for the passers-by.

This longing for the dramatic exit had me paralyzed for months. All those late nights, folded over my pigeon-shat plastic chair, stretching my legs against the fence, knowing which patches to avoid. Tempted to smoke, then thanking myself later for sparing me the guilt. Scheming about all the new lives a girl can create for herself. Reciting all the new ways to start over, most of which somehow involved a haircut. Mentally planning the outfits I would buy for my new life. Looking at the three stars in the sky, wondering whether they’d look the same in Tokyo. Or London.

Later, I’d watch a film with a comparably tortured protagonist, and my desire would grow stronger. Romanticizing the unknown because the present felt boring. Obsessing over what everyone else was doing just to feed my daydreaming. Closing my eyes and imagining what it would feel like to live somebody else’s life. On every app, founding myself jealous of the chemistry some women my age have with life. And before I knew it, my escapist nightdreaming had diluted into blurry mornings.

The morning commute, a necessary evil that had forced itself into a ritual. The same platform, the same rail pitch, the same female voice announcing stations in Dutch. BO, forced scrolling, and hyperhidrosis. Never the same faces, but always kind of the same. Considering all the benefits I would be giving up: free burnt coffee, small talks about the unpredictability of the weather, trips to niche Eastern European cities. And above all, an answer to the question “So, what do you do?” Not an important one, just an acceptable one — to get certain family members and LinkedIn self-acclaimed career coaches off my back.

The woman next to me turns off the window-seat screen and shuts down the window with a sudden, abrupt move that brings grounds me back to my inclined seat. We’re some hours away from landing. Marty Supreme’s story ties up so eloquently together. Ours don’t. He longs for something so specific and is willing to give up everything behind, burn bridges, only to become who he thinks he has to become. His only plan is that there is no other plan. And what do we have? There’s no writer’s room. We don’t need to make sense for any audience. There’s not even an audience. Only our moms, if we’re lucky.

The layover is fast, humid, and fairly stressful. My emails start coming through, and I am scrolling down to see the acknowledgment of my resignation. They said they’re sorry to hear, but I think they’d be more sorry if I stayed. The woman from seat A queues up behind me for passport control. To my surprise, she acknowledhes me in the space, and in a low-pitched voice, she compliments my cow-print ballerinas. I thank her, and I ask if she’s also going to Japan. “No,” she says. “It feels like everyone is going to Japan nowadays.” Indeed, it does. Maybe it’s just everyone’s dramatic exit.

Travelling on business is one thing thirteen-year-old me would have put on her vision board, if vision boarding were a thing in post-recession Greece. Without being aware of it, I was doing that exact thing when hearting business women in Burberry trench coats and shiny pumps pushing a Louis Vuitton trolley through a busy airport on WeHeartIt. In my pubescent mind, that would have been the epitome of success. Every time I was at the airport as a child (all six times), I remember being fascinated by the gorgeous hair and makeup of air attendants, and my mom asking me if that’s who I want to be when I grow up. “As long as I can travel for work”, I used to say with sincere determination.

Now my perspective has changed because going on any type of corporate travel is a) draining (much more mentally than physically), and b) way less glamorous than popular media had my thirteen-year-old self believe.

In fact, it can be particularly unglamorous when you are the only woman, around forty men; the common thread of them being a hobby so arcane that its appeal seems to lie mostly with husbands in midlife crises. Needless to say, it does not appeal to me. And as much as I take pride in being a curious, open-minded, and never-say-never type of person, I can safely say that it never will.

For the past two years, I have been travelling all around Europe every two months. It’s not the main part of the job, but it’s quite important. Most of the days are spent in humid meeting rooms with non-responsive HDMI cables, a ping pong of corporate jargon, and discussions with unclear conclusions. This is usually followed by a polite thirty-minute hotel rest, a rushed night city tour, and a team dinner. As a habit, on the way back to the hotel, my career doubts flare up most profoundly. Realizing that my time is important, and how we spend our days is how we spend our lives. Probably another WeHeartIt quote engraved in my unconsciousness.

However, in the brief interval between meetings and team dinners, I find the cheat code. It’s a short coffee walk in the city. Or a moment to journal early in the morning. Or sometimes even a solo drink - thinking how far I am from the life I really want, and how close to the life thirteen-year-old me had once so outspokenly wanted. The decisions of my past have led to the dream job of a man with an objectionable algorithm, but not mine.

We landed at the Florence airport, a tiny, yet functional space with some cafés and some paper kiosks that sell Pinocchio pencils. The crowd at arrivals is men in suits with luxury fashion house logos, holding tablets and shouting names. Our local partner greets me cheerily, and she confesses, somewhat conspiratorially, “There are not many women in this event.” Yep, correct.

We make our way to the hotel, the one I had carefully sourced out of the many, for the mere reason of: a) big pool and b) tiny balcony in each room. It is even more beautiful in person. On the way here, I saw barking dogs, received gentle nods from locals, and watched the calm river streams that made me feel like living in a painting. Naturally, I am googling properties to buy - with my Vinted money - and thinking whether life would be easier if I just moved out of the city. A frequent occurrence whilst on holiday at any place with an inviting body of water.

The schedule is tight, so I know that when I enter the room, I need to be out within ten minutes. The futility of this curated comfort hits me every time, too early, and is bound to happen multiple times during the trip. I am late to our gathering because I can’t find the only thing that can make me feel a bit closer to my body; my small silver hoops. A small, silent attempt to maintain personality amidst the logomania. I receive the “Where are you” call that reminds me I am a bad employee, and I make my way to the grown men with obscure hobbies.

The evening is adequate, according to my boss. I nod, I ask, I laugh. Not on purpose. And when I’ve had enough, I excuse myself because of the “event organization”, and I hide in my room for just the right amount of time before anyone comes looking for me. When I return, I am funny and charming and satisfied that the pace of my disappearance is barely noticeable. By the end of the night, I’ve successfully greeted everyone at the venue, made a welcome speech that had people murmuring something about my Mediterranean temperament, and only spilled my drink once.

I put my alarm early on purpose to do my morning pages - in the hope of documenting the serenity of the landscape beyond the blurry pictures with flashy branding peeping through. I reach for my phone from the other side of the bed, and I open my email app and check what I’ve missed - two promotional emails from Albert Heijn and Kruidvat, and one non-promotional email from a program I had applied to when I decided to take control of my life. Unlike previous non-promotional e-mails, this one does not end up in the pile of 230 rejection emails.

Rather, it’s an offer, but not the typical offer my thirteen-year-old self would have expected. Because she wanted different things, much like the eighteen-year-old, both of them in no position to make decisions. Decisions that shape the life we have, only until we choose otherwise. Ten years later, it still doesn’t feel like I am in the position to make them, but I guess not making them is also a decision.

I called my friends and family and I did the morning pages. I took my time with them. Maybe I was late, but when I opened that door to meet the men, I felt so light. I can still be here, daydream as I want. I can do it from the comfort of knowing it is the last time.

All the floors are now rented out to people from the internet, except the ground floor. Usually, my first stop before making it all the way up to my cousin’s apartment on the roof. I won’t be going up any stairs today. As I make my entrance through the door, I am immediately overwhelmed by the all-familiar scent that has anchored my visits. Vetiver, civet, and smoke mixed with the humid August air. The house smells like a memory. The layout of the room has remained untouched: the two patterned sofas shape an L, separated by the tiny round table tucked in the corner, the floral print armchair facing them on the other side. The perfect surfaces to jump on when the floor is lava.

Grandpa doesn’t immediately recognize me. There is coffee on the table, the TV remote, his broken glasses. Black wrinkly linen shirt, dark denim pants. He takes a while to stand up with the support of his walking stick, and I let him lean on me for the duration of our hug. He lists a variety of drinks he can offer, and I am acting impressed by his hospitality skills. Aunt said we all have to, after Grandma. I compliment his drink inventory and agree to a sour cherry soda. Too proud to accept help, he walks independently in the kitchen to deliver his promise. I am left in the living room with only the humming sound of the air conditioner.

Since last year, Grandma is only present in pictures. I count them all: seven in total, adorning the furniture I used to stand next to when I was a child. Proof that I was growing taller; from the small, crayon-stained ottoman, all the way up to the glass vitrine holding bibelots and doilies. Pencil markings still there. Right next to it, the cabinet that was used as a surface for my brother’s Legos and my grandma’s crosswords. Now home to a burning oil candle next to a picture of the three siblings. One dead, two alive.

Above that, the rest of the family is revealed on the wall. Wooden frame with a cheap golden coating, adding to the formaldehyde in the air. It is custom-made, Grandma had said when she first put it up. That had not impressed me, I thought all things were made by someone for someone. It’s a typical Greek August wedding. Grandpa, grandma. Three children, one dead, two alive. Eight grandchildren, one dead, seven alive. Cut-off passport pictures of the two grand-grandchildren are tucked in the right corner of the frame; they had not been born yet. Everyone looks tanned and sweaty. The table is full of glasses with drinks I was not allowed to try. Ouzo with melted ice.

Grandpa walks back in the room with the promised sour cherry soda. Five floating ice cubes, dark precipitate of syrup. I stir the drink quickly, spilling an ice cube outside my glass. I ask him if he made the syrup himself, and he says there’s still a batch left from Grandma. His gaze is fixed on the wall tapestry, which is almost falling apart. I ask how it is without Grandma around, naively. Lonely, he admits. Your aunt is a good help. She moved out last month. Now it’s only me on the ground floor, exactly how it all started.

The man who built this house. And then a floor on top of that, and then another. A house for a wife, three children, eight grandchildren. A house that smells like memory

.

I glance at her next to me, looking for sympathy for my unpreparedness. Do you already know your New Year’s resolutions? Not a clue, she replies compassionately. Ι only had one goal for last year and I managed to reach it, so now I guess I need to be extra ambitious for next year. What was it, I ask. Not hooking up with my ex. Ah yeah, it makes sense. I cross my arms behind my head and look at the sky. Some clouds have covered the sun, and I feel a temporary relief from the burning sun as I am contemplating my goals for next year.

The clouds make the decision for us, and we get up to leave. We walk around, unsure where to go next. Aimlessly strolling in the streets of the island, picking up flower-shaped hair clips from little shops, feeling dizzy from the scents of fried fish, steamed rice and laundromats, barely engaging in any sort of dialogue. The maze of little streets keeps spitting us out at our initial starting point, and we keep insisting on smelling new corners. There is a plethora of little street vendors to get souvenirs from, and I end up buying them in bulk, still without a clear vision of who to gift them to. I fill up my bag, as they do as well, and a couple of minutes later, we collectively decide that walk time is over. We are around an hour away from our hotel, so we call a cab and sit tightly in the back. Some small talk with the driver that leads nowhere, and then silence.

Having car sickness as an adult is a humbling reminder of the limits of our bodies. I am left staring dramatically outside the window while the girls are on their phones. It is the first time in the trip when I pondered about my life when I get back, a sudden heartache because that life still exists, and waits for me despite the carelessness that has defined the trip so far. As far as New Year’s resolutions go, it’s been the same for the past ten years: getting that goddamn driver’s license. Other than that, you’ve got me.

Life feels very fluid and unintentional when there is no clear path. I am a big fan of my absent-mindedness and my inability to commit to a plan for more than one month, but bad thoughts always creep in when I am laying down at bed scrolling on certain apps. A sort of unprompted guilt, not for my waste of time per se, but for what now feels like a waste of years, of education, and so on. And these thoughts materialize even more profoundly when someone shamelessly asks you to think of New Year’s resolutions at the beach. The comfort of being told: You’re so young, you’ll figure it out, is replaced by that scene from Frances Ha: 27 is old, though.

Okay, I figured them out, she admits from the other side of the car. Unaware of how evident my thoughts are now on my face, I turn my attention to her. So, I think I have five resolutions for this year. The first one is to continue not hooking up with my ex. We both nod encouragingly. Then, the second one, is to find a new job that will make me happier and will pay more money. I also want to go to the gym twice a week, start a new painting course, and save up money to travel for a bit. And learn how to bake bread. Just threw that one in as a bonus.

I chip in something about how it all makes sense and try making your goals SMART because I have nothing more to contribute. All the goals listed are very normal and achievable and unintimidating. Why does it always have to be more complicated than that? As years pass, the only constant in my life has been that specific New Year’s resolution. Probably for a decade now. Looking back at my notes from 2016, all these goals have been decreasing exponentially. In 2024, my goals were as few as three: drivers license, fall in love, and drop my ep (a resolution dropped within two months). Consistently throughout the years, I have a 70% achievement ratio, but life feels good regardless.

We just arrived at the hotel, all three looking and feeling very dizzy. We don’t have much time to get ready for the beach party tonight, so we get in line for the shower. The outfits have been planned in advance but clearly in a different context, because by the time we are calling our taxi, we kind of look like Meryl Streep and her crew at Mamma Mia. How would this scene fit at Frances Ha?

Another silent ride on our way to the beach. We all had intense food poisoning, so we plan to be entirely sober the whole night, and arrive just in time to see the fireworks. It is the first time in my life that I spend New Year’s Eve at the beach. Usually, I welcome every new year in: a) a rooftop with an outside temperature -2 degrees but feels like -4 or b) in a dimly lit and festively decorated living room that smells like slow-cooked casserole. And always, very tipsy.

Before the clock strikes midnight, I announce that I have figured out my New Year’s resolution. This year, I want to get my driver’s license, that’s it. They agreeably respond, Nice, keep it focused. Perfectly timed, the countdown interrupts our conversation, and ten seconds later, the sky begins to resemble Van Gogh’s Starry Night. The heavy sound of fireworks and the faint scent of smoke and gunpowder are the same in every part of the earth. Life is also the same in every part of the earth, but it matters less here.

I am very annoyed at the cut-off sounds and the scrolling tempo. However, I can predict how each sound should finish off. Because just a day ago, I was in my childhood bedroom, lying on my bed with my phone within reach. I was holding All Fours, but nothing could stick in my head. The book suddenly resembled a white block with black symbols, and my eyes were just bouncing on top of the letter curves. Meaning nothing, signaling nothing. Why push it? I just opened my phone.

What can I do? I have deleted most social media apps on my phone, so I can’t be nosy on my friends and friends’ friends and distant acquaintances’ lives. But I can go on LinkedIn. I open the app: 10 reasons why the marketing funnel is broken. Absolutely not. I investigate my home app, feeling like I’m looking for a needle in a haystack. I notice I still have TikTok downloaded. I keep deleting the app when scrolling inevitably leads to low points (filming an OOTD video, lip-syncing a viral sound, looking up nose job near me), but somehow, it was hiding in my homepage all along. Lucky me!

Scroll after scroll, I find myself missing out on trends and references after being away for so long: it’s okay! I am catching up fast. In my first session, I can see multiple creator takes on the same sound. Many familiar faces: that TikTok couple, that girl who would star in any early 20s romcom, the half-German half-Italian comedian. My old friends! How I’ve missed them. I scroll even more until my phone also starts to resemble that block, except now it also makes sounds. But then, I come across something interesting: a girl is doing her makeup, and she describes every product she is using in detail. And in particular, a tubing mascara. It’s supposed to be a different technology from the common mascaras we all know, because it doesn’t smudge so you can apply more layers, leaving your lashes very long.

I am intrigued. I click the search bar tubing mascara. Apparently, everyone knows about this but me? And then I see that one of my online best friends that I missed so much is using tubing mascara. That’s the final push. I look online for all the brands available. The one advertised in the TikTok looks like the best one yet, so maybe I should just go for that one. But it’s thirty euros. Has the cost of scrolling gone up that high? I deliberated about it for a while, doing all sorts of math in my head to decide whether I should budget it in. Maybe it can be my splurge of the month? Well, it is Christmas, and that’s exactly what people do during Christmas, so it’s happening.

I enter Sephora in an almost euphoric state due to my indulgent decision-making. I take a whiff of the store: can’t tell any scent apart. It’s packed with people, smells, and promotional stands. And security guards, somewhat alarmingly. I am here with a mission: I know my brand, I know my product, I know my price. I can’t seem to find them in this Sephora. I asked the sales associate, Do you have tubing mascara? What? Oh, yes, we sure do! Follow me, please.

I follow her, hypnotized as she guides me through the store. She hands me the tubing mascara, and I thank her earnestly. I head to the cashier, and the line is huge, maybe everyone found out about tubing mascara. Or squalene toners, sleeping masks, eye tints, and marshmallow perfumes. Maybe they also get their recommendations from their online friends, but the cost of scrolling seems to differ per person.

The queue takes forever, but I don’t mind. I browse all the travel minis as I approach the cashier. They are color-coded and serve different functions, some more useful than others, and some arguably useless. Faint music hums from the speakers, though whatever is playing feels strangely familiar. I can’t place it, yet it stirs a past earworm. I pay the thirty euros, shamelessly, and I exit Sephora with a polite nod to the security guard. The song was clinging stubbornly in my mind all the way home.

As soon as I come in, I announce mom my latest purchase. I find myself passionately explaining to her the different mascara technologies while she is also researching the concept herself. I open the tube and put on the mascara. It smells like latex. I apply two generous layers to each eye, waiting impatiently for each layer to dry. I take a good look at the mirror and ask my mom what she thinks. She looks indifferent. I think my online friends lied to me.

I ask my mom if she wants the mascara, and go back to my room. I pick up All Fours and lay on my bed and feel sleepy and tired. Just as I’m about to drift off, it hits me. The faint earworm I’ve been carrying all the way home suddenly feels unmistakably familiar. It’s the first verse of Material Girl. I validate the thought by playing it on my phone. How iconic! I delete TikTok.

I stare at my phone screen and refresh my e-mails while I am sitting on a park bench. It is still very wet because it just rained this morning, contrary to what my weather forecast app predicted. I never used to be so wary about the weather, but all the content I have been consuming warns that you can get seasonal depression when you haven’t seen the sunlight for too long. So ever since, the weather has been quite an effortless scapegoat for my moodiness. It never occurred to me that I could just blame the weather and it would be an acceptable excuse for any occasion. Especially coming from a warm country.

I check the weather app again: it’s not going to rain anymore, so I guess I should go for a long walk and pick up one of my outdoorsy hobbies - maybe running? Or outdoor cinema? Or maybe play padel? Or maybe I should go for a long walk and get my 10K steps in. But that’s not very productive, and maybe I should just go in and finish my book. Then again, I wouldn’t be making the most of the non-rainy day, and we don’t get those so often anymore. It will be dark soon though, and it’s a bit dangerous in the park alone.

My ruminations are interrupted by two children entering the field with their soccer ball. One is taller than the other, both blond, wearing football jerseys of teams I cannot recognize. I wonder if they are completely alone on the field; they don’t seem old enough to have won the independence of arranging a friendly football match in the neighbourhood in the middle of a school week.

A voice shouts at them in English: “Wear your jackets!” My independence assessment was correct; their mom is nearby, policing them while on the phone. She seems important. Posture-wise. She wears a long puffer jacket that stops just below her knees, with New Balance trainers and a blue cap, brandless and logoless. I wonder if she ever had to apply for thirteen jobs in one go: five of them in different cities, one of them on a different continent. I wonder if she’s ever had to check the weather app to back up her mood. I don’t think this excuse would stand in the household court, not really. How can a child empathize with a depressing demeanour, with the deficient explanation that the sun is not shining that bright?

I still cannot tell why the mom is important. She speaks in an Eastern European language on the phone, and I can’t make a word of it. I want to know what she is talking about so badly, but it’s a futile effort. I decide to quench my thirst for other people’s gossip by putting on an audiobook that falls under the Young Adult Fiction category, despite being an Adult Adult. My pants are wet enough to motivate me to get off the bench and start making the best of this non-rainy day.

I completely phase out after five minutes, thinking about my early-morning application frenzy. All these thirteen different lives could have been lives in which the weather forecast wouldn’t have mattered too much. The socially acceptable excuse of being a bit sad because of some clouds would not be in my playbook. The need for any excuse wouldn’t have existed at all, unless I wanted to be a bitch and get out of plans. I would probably have had to say no to some, with my job keeping me so busy and fully booked and fabulous. Walking around in the city and sitting at a wet bench would probably have been as unimportant as it actually is, and not the reference point of an essay.

I lock back in: the heroine just stormed out of the pub after an intense conversation with her boyfriend, who runs after her and asks questions to make some sense of her, but she is drunk, ecstatic, and full of lust. She kisses him passionately, and they go home without paying the bill. When they wake up in the morning, still in the same clothes, and the stench of evaporated alcohol lingering in the air, they make the hungover decision to break up. I will bring your stuff tomorrow, he says. It’s okay, Mary can pick them up, she replies. Her best friend, who lives in the same city as her.

That’s worth writing a book about, I guess.

My audiobook fails to keep me entertained, and I switch to music, while making peace with my judgmental self that a silent walk is a spiral walk. I put on Illuminations by Buffy Sainte-Marie. Guess who I saw in Paris, guess who I saw in Paris, she says. I think about how I know no one in Paris. Guess who invited him up to her room, guess who made him some tea. Is that why I applied for that job in Paris? To steal someone’s boyfriend and sleep in his arms after playing his guitar? Is that the version of myself that I am envying?

I decide I want to go home, practice self-discipline, and follow very strict steps: unlock the door, take off my coat, put on the kettle, take off my clothes, get under the covers, and hope for a long nap. It’s the only safe outcome of listening to bad fiction while being existential at the park. Not much can make this day more extravagant and Parisian, so might as well have some dreams about one of the thirteen figs.

On my short walk home, I realize I forgot my gloves on the bench. It’s the second pair I lose this year, and I decide to let them be. I keep buying gloves even though I know I will lose them. Kinda like the thirteen job applications. Contrary to my parental self-advise, when I arrive home, all I manage to do is unlock my door, take out my phone, and with my coat still on, open Substack and post: hot girls hate their jobs. One person likes it.

Every morning on my commute, I somehow add more garments to my mental shopping basket: wool pea coats, cashmere sweaters layered over collars, and shiny loafers peeking out from tailored trousers. The allure of office-wear keeps growing, despite me being a long-time, silent hater of it.

But it’s not just fast-fashion brands capitalizing on the office-siren aesthetic (which I thought would be over by now). At Paris and Milan Fashion Week, blazers, suiting, and tailored pieces dominated the runways, with elevated and more enticing takes on office wear - still office wear, just way more gorgeous. But maybe the fashion houses were simply tuning in to something bigger.

Historically, when the fashion industry catches a chill (shaky consumer spending, rising inflation, or general uncertainty) brands don’t double down on novelty. Instead, they simplify and return to basics: muted colours, timeless cuts, and practical silhouettes that feel more safe. Neutral tones like brown, black, white, and grey dominate the stores, while neon colours, bold prints, and experimental shapes fade out. It’s not just about aesthetics; these choices signal risk management from a business perspective. Brands know that during uncertain times, consumers are less likely to spend on trend-driven or statement pieces and more likely to invest in wardrobe staples that feel functional and timeless.

Keeping that in mind, I came across a post on one of my beloved accounts, @databutmakeitfashion, suggesting that “office-core” might be yet another #RecessionIndicator. Recession indicators in fashion have been a topic that I find particularly amusing because they actually make so much sense.(Also, they’d made a gorg Halloween party theme.) They’re weirdly creative too. Here are my favourites:

Lipstick index: When people can’t afford big luxuries, they still buy small indulgences like lipstick.

Big Bag Theory: When the economy is doing well, people buy smaller, more fashion-forward bags; during downturns, larger, more practical bags become popular. The idea is that oversized bags signal practicality and a need to carry everything you might need.

More recently, trends like quiet luxury and normcore have been seen as signs of economic caution: simple & practical dressing. By that logic, office-core fits right in; it signals discipline, and when times feel uncertain, we crave reliability, not just in what we buy, but in how we present ourselves.

Despite all that, I still find office wear the most baffling recession indicator of them all: most of us (at least in Europe) now work in hybrid models, which technically require less dressing up. Between two or three office days a week, the rest of our working lives unfold over Teams calls and messy kitchen tables. I mostly just wear sweatpants and hoodies, and maybe shirt on a good day. There’s no real need for loafers or blazers - and yet, we’re romanticizing them anyway.

But I don’t really think office wear is limited only to work days... People are just dressing smart outside of work, but why would I want to look like I am heading to an “all-hands strategy day” when I am just casually getting my morning Saturday stroll at the park? It feels like a corporate glitch.

Office wear is arguably not the most exciting aesthetic. It’s square and sometimes sterile, the opposite of expressive. So why are we all falling for it? Maybe that’s exactly the point. Maybe we’re bored of styling. Maybe everything in stores feels the same, so we default to what feels “classic.” Maybe it’s just winter, and no one cares about clothes lol.

Whatever the reason, I believe my obsession will fade away, and I can’t wait. I’ll keep scrolling and saving countless Miu Miu frames and baby-blue striped shirts on Pinterest. But I know the minute I actually put these things on, I’ll last about a week before feeling like a stranger in my own body. Except for a blazer - looove a good blazer.

Proof I’m not lying:

https://edition.cnn.com/2025/03/12/style/paris-fashion-week-fall-winter-2025-highlights

https://www.34st.com/article/2025/07/recession-indicator-lipstick-index-nara-smith-fashion

https://www.theguardian.com/fashion/2025/jul/28/worried-about-the-cost-of-living-crisis-maybe-you-need-another-lipstick

https://www.vogue.com/article/why-is-everything-in-fashion-suddenly-a-recession-indicator

Style Analytics

A meta-analysis of recession indicators

There has been a lot of talk about recession indicators as of late, with the most random of fashion trends being flagged as a signal of an upcoming recession. Blazers, boho skirts, peplums and indie sleaze skinny scarves (à la Timothee Chalamet) aren’t…

Read more

a year ago · 131 likes · 13 comments · Style Analytics

https://www.marieclaire.com/fashion/recession-2025-fashion-indicators/

If the cost of strolling on IG and TikTok is emotional (and the cause of many ruined Sundays), on Substack it’s purely financial. All these posts sent me on a humble mission to transform my bedroom into an award-winning autumn sanctuary (the jury was my small friend group). Also, having always strived to curate a half-assed minimalistic-Scandi-mid-century-modern aesthetic in my 11m² room in Amsterdam – and operating on limited funds - buying unnecessary decorative items didn’t sit well with me.

So I started small: repairing some stuff I already own, procuring 50-cent candle holders from thrift shops, and pursuing some very doomed DIY projects. I got myself way too much into the DIY YouTube woodworking rabbit hole, and I was viscerally humbled when I was not even able to unscrew my closet’s doors. Also, I don’t know who sold us the lie that DIY projects are cheaper, because I ended up spending almost ¾ of what a closet costs PLUS my labor hours (and tears) (and probably compromised lungs because of all the fume-y chemicals).

Then I accepted that the Room Rebranding ® was not going to be a modest project budget-wise. And, as one thing inevitably led to another, I’ve somehow shamefully spent €40 on a Margiela candle titled Autumn Vibes. After two months of justifying these seemingly inevitable purchases to myself, I am happy to admit that I’ve materialized an exceptional vibe in my room, and it smells fantastic. But at what cost?

It all started very sneakily. I canceled a Friday night out because the week was too hard, and I just needed to chill and watch a movie at home. Or I was insisting on staying in because I was reading a delicious book (thanks Richard Powers). I was waking up early and just glancing at the trees from my window, listening to the rustling of the leaves: I was skipping coffee dates, club nights, dinners… I was romanticizing mundane moments and even boring admin laptop tasks felt very whimsical and wintery and the Holiday Kate Winslet-coded.

Being cozy at home was so gorgeous and disarming, and that’s all I did: a hibernation soft-launch, vitamin D deficiency in disguise, a circadian rhythm reset. All in my room. While I can’t relate much to the #winterarc, I think I sort of created my own? Somehow, I found myself unconsciously launching my Stay At Home Winter Campaign. And thus, winning the title of the Stay at Home Friend.

In case you want to become a stay-at-home friend too, here’s how I did it:

1. I painted my furniture.

I am not a big DIY person unless it’s absolutely necessary (and I am running low on funds). I had this ghastly closet in a color that screamed corporate, and I really wanted to change it, but closets are expensive and hard to move out. So I decided to just give my closet a makeover, which, seemed easy at first, as every Diy projects does. I will spare the details (as I am in NO way in a position to type a tutorial), but here is DIY project #1:

The ugly before

Trusting the process?

YAY!

2. I got new bedding.

I always had boring-ass white bedding that only varied in texture, and for some reason it never occurred to me to buy something more colorful?? So I got these (still boring-ass, but with a twist) blue-striped duvet covers that somehow ended up anchoring the whole room.

3. I stole my family heirloom (warm lights yay).

Thanks, Mom and Dad, for getting married in 1997 - and for shipping your wedding gift lamp all the way from Greece. It’s perfect.

Also, what the hell? I found this lamp on the street and noone wants to be my friend anymore:

4. I got curtains!! Actually, it’s just because I didn’t have any!!

They’re creamy, crispy, yummy, delicious — and they smell like possibility and cheap cotton.

5. I put frames all around.

I had so many photobooth pictures unfairly stored away in drawers. Now I can see my friends while I’m working, and reminisce about the times when I wasn’t a stay-at-home friend.

6. Candles, many.

I purchased six (6) candles. Some were out of budget, some were gifts, and some look like mushrooms and shall never be lit <3

I can now happily hibernate as a stay-at-home friend, but do expect the build-up fomo to knock on the door in a month or two. But until then, you’ll hear from me through Letterboxd. Kisses <3

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Take a step back, take off your ex’s scratched Oakleys, and have a good look at the mirror. Your runs are never going to feel innocent and drama-free ever again. That cute person you spot in the first row? He’s your friend’s ex. That other insufferable person who would not stop reciting his PBs without you ever inquiring? Well, he’s probably your future colleague.

In the past two years, there has been a huge boom in run clubs across Europe. These groups are formed both by local communities and by many activewear brands. Regardless of their origin or intentions, one thing has become clear: run clubs have become one of the easiest ways to find a community and connect with others in the city. Let’s take a look at the numbers: 1.1 million people have already registered for the 2026 London Marathon - a world record, and double the number from just two years ago.

There was a nice piece by Vox exploring this adorable boom in run clubs, and the common thread is that it helped people cope with loneliness and find structure, especially in the post-pandemic years. This surge is largely driven by Gen Z, who, at that time, were just starting their career or were jobless, which is arguably a dark time that can only be tackled with a supportive community and compulsive routine around sports or crafts.

While it is true that run clubs can offer community and connection, it is also the place where people flirt their asses out. And I’m not just saying that, just look at TikTok and IG reels of run clubs in your city. They seem to be quietly replacing dating apps, which makes sense if you think about it: there is no third place for our cute, slightly introverted generation (that is, if you exclude The Groupchat). And without third places, it’s become a rather rare and mortifying thrill to actually approach someone in person and say something as unimaginative as “So... have you been running for a long time?”.

Some would argue that you get the best of both worlds: you can start a new hobby, get fitter, ghost all those unanswered Hinge matches guilt-free, and focus on meeting cute people in real life. Alas, there is a catch - your little innocent runs are about to turn hella toxic. Because, in case you haven’t noticed, half the city has joined a run club. And half the city entails: your ex, your ex’s ex, that girl you met your first week in the city, that dude you sometimes bump into on your way to work, at least three colleagues… and the list goes on.

What does that mean for you?

First of all, say goodbye to your sexy anonymity. At some point – probably around the third kilometre of that fast-paced group that you joined to prove something to yourself – you’ll hear your name called from behind. You’ll look back, seemingly collected, and to your surprise, you’ll witness your work crush, drenched in sweat. For obvious reasons, you will only be able to use your hands to communicate, and he will politely outpace you in a cheerful frolic. You’ll be left behind, baffled and gasping for your life, but your brain will already be spinning: the coffee chat on Monday morning is going to be so much more interesting.

You talk at work. You realize, with relief, that your lungs did not betray you too badly, and you had not lost face. You keep running into each other (pun intended). A few months down the line, you are hooked, all you are thinking about is when the next interval session will take place, how long the long run will be, who signed up for that special Strava event that is actually like all other Strava events. And then, you will have that big realization moment that maybe... it is not about the run anymore.

You finally work up the courage to ask for his number. First date: done. Second date: his house, featuring your not-that-good cooking skills that somehow still outshine his “best carbonara you’ll ever have”. Third date: at a bar you chose and he vocally condemns because of the “alternative crowd”. You get more drinks. He gets a bit too comfy about this stance on various topics. You get the ick. You report back to The Groupchat. The Work Crush is officially cancelled.

To no one’s great surprise, now you have to see this person again at the run club. You will try to ignore him, literally run away from him, dodge his not-so-shy glances at your side. Meanwhile, you can’t escape the haunting thought that everyone in the run club knows. “I’ll just find another run club,” you tell yourself. “There are just so many run clubs in the city.” Don’t bother, he’ll be there too. Or his ex will. And probably she will be faster than you.

And now your love life is all tangled with this innocent noble sport you once used to hate-love. Suddenly, you’re back in high school — trying to impress someone with how fast you run, bragging about your 5K PB, never shutting up about your new gear, and somehow finding yourself in a Garmin vs. Coros debate you swear you didn’t mean to start. Your calendar is packed with run-club speed-dating events, each requiring a quick sanity check of the guest list before you commit. Your hard-earned, TikTok-scrolling-during-company-hours money is all going into the new ghastly running harnesses and Sauconys. And your old friends? You probably lost them somewhere around your third: “I’m taking it easy tonight - I’ve got to wake up at seven for a long run.”

PS 1 You should absolutely join a run club — if only for the plot (and The Groupchat).

PS 2 If you are thinking of founding a new run club, please don’t. We have enough.

Proof I am not lying to you:

1. https://www.vox.com/even-better/385283/train-marathon-gen-z

2. https://www.theguardian.com/sport/2025/may/27/running-gen-z-boom-athletics-london-marathon

3. https://www.vice.com/en/article/running-clubs-are-the-new-dating-apps/