I’ll let you in on a daydream of mine. Someday, when I’m a little old lady, retired and happily set in my ways, I’ll walk into my garage at a summer home I bought in Tuscany and pick out a classic car to drive for the day. Perhaps it’ll be a 1962 hunter green Mercedes convertible with the most beautiful tan leather interior. Or maybe I’ll opt for something a bit more sporty, a two-seater MG from the 70s — candy apple red. And I’ll drive into town at a speed “too fast for my age” (a comment from locals that will only make me drive faster) and I’ll pick up my groceries for the week. I’ll apply my lipstick in the rear view mirror with the utmost dexterity thanks to years of muscle memory, fasten a silk scarf over my already wind tousled hair and I’ll smile and playfully wink at some of the tourists in town, as they wonder, “Now who could that be?”
Of course, until this day arrives, I’ll happily dream about it every time a classic car catches my eye, which thankfully in New York, happens quite often.
As for this week's playlist? It's very much inspired by this daydream of mine — a collection of swelling, feel-good, roll the windows down, step on the gas and drive kind of songs. And now with temperatures creeping into the mid-60s this week here in New York? Well, all the more reason to daydream about carefree spring days not too far off.
Hope you enjoy and if you have any mood/theme requests for these weekly playlists of mine — please do let me know!
4minute read4minute read "I think when you begin to think of yourself as having achieved something, then there's nothing left for you to work towards. I want to believe that there is a mountain so high that I will spend my entire life striving to reach the top of it." ~ Cicely Tyson
Earlier this summer, I was introduced to Clive Christian — a brand with deeply rooted British heritage, with none other than Queen Victoria herself as perhaps their first true ambassador (her crown-likeness sits atop each bottle, in fact!).
Their scents — drawing from the ethereally light and floral to the heady and rich, have quickly become some of my favorites; delicious notes that have undeniably punctuated a strange, and at times, blurry year. But that's the thing about memories, isn't it? We spend so much effort romanticizing the good times — crystalizing them in our minds — that we forget the harder ones can be just as pivotal, just as sweet, just as worthy of remembrance. A reminder of what we overcame and how we forged ahead.
A few weeks ago, their team sent me their latest fragrance — Crab Apple Blossom — and I was immediately taken by the blend. Top notes infused with marine bergamot, bitter yuzu, lemon tree and citruswood, balanced with softer, quieter heart notes of neroli and water lily, grounded with just a touch of sandalwood and moss. It's an elusive mix of opposites that I think serves as a fitting ending tribute to this whirlwind of a year. A blend that balances extremes in a beautiful way — the whimsical with the grounded. The bitter with the sweet. The ingénue with the femme fatale. The out of focus with sharp clarity. Take the crab apple itself for instance, arguably one of the most sour apple types around and rarely eaten straight off the tree — but when prepared the right way and paired lovingly with the right ingredients, its counterparts? It sings. Oh, it sings.
Anddddd on the flip side, when too much positivity becomes a negative thing -- I found this article to be quite interesting. Here's a succinct pull quote:
"When people use or demand positive emotions or optimism in a way that causes people to feel oppressed or disregarded, that's toxic positivity,” Stephanie Preston, Ph.D., professor of psychology at the University of Michigan explains. “It ranges from people actively trying to maintain their own spirits or sticking their heads in the sand, to forcefully preventing others from voicing uncomfortable concerns.” No matter how well meaning, such blind positivity can feel “repressive or invalidating to others,” Preston adds.
3minute read3minute read "If you live in New York long enough — and it doesn’t have to be very long — it gradually becomes unrecognizable. And maybe, you begin to realize, it’s for someone else entirely, someone new or from somewhere else, someone perhaps with more money, more energy: someone circumstantially or possibly constitutionally ignorant of what you took to be authentic about this place when it felt like it was yours. (Nothing makes you feel old like listening to someone talk about what you know to be an upstart as iconic.) It’s too big a city to live in all of it, so you find your corners, your go-tos. Sometimes they are long-running, but mostly they come and they go. It’s part of the Darwinian, self-alienating thrill of the place: More often than not, you outlive your landmarks."