It’s a sunny morning and I just read somewhere on the Internet that we should take time to celebrate happy moments in life. I suspect that’s just a genius new way to procrastinate, but I’m in and I’m walking down to Laughing Man Coffee on Duane. This unassuming hole-in-the-wall place has made the most of its limited real estate by setting up benches and evergreens and faux grass right on the street beyond the curb. The chalkboard behind the baristas greets me with an optimistic incantation — All Be Happy. Flat whites are delicious but that’s hardly the point. I’m here to people watch.
This is the heart of TriBeCa and if you thought New York neighborhoods had no dress code, you probably just arrived from somewhere rural, like Arkansas. TriBeCa is for rich people and this is how you look rich: soft cream colors and grey accents worn all at once — year-round. Proportions matter too. Sweaters: oversized. Jeans: cropped. Shoes: Gucci. Dogs and children are an acceptable accessory. Fluffy Pomeranians perch on laps and docile Labs eye buttery croissants with longing. Angelic toddlers in Maclaren strollers contently chew Sofie La Giraffes.
“Casual” and “pared-back” is how a Vogue writer recently described Gisele Bundchen, caught stepping out for groceries in a beige fluffy coat and ripped jeans. The women on these benches have gotten the memo. They may not have anywhere specific to be at 10AM on a Wednesday, but they look chic doing it.
We have things in common, these women and me. I like Gucci and there’s nowhere that I’m currently missed. My Instagram bio gleefully states: “Freelance writer, living your dream life, self-expressing into my journal from coffee shops around the world.” A year ago, I’d hate-follow this bitch. Today, I’m just trying to live up to whoever it is she claims to be. I lied. I’m not here to people watch. I’m desperately trying to blend in. Oh, how I want this idyllic life wrapped in a faux fur poncho! Here, on these benches freelance contracts never end, tag lines are never criticized. These women have men who want to marry them and babies who never get fevers. Their dogs have Instagram accounts with more followers than me.
No one’s at work and they don’t seem to care!
In my imagination these coffee devotees are the proud owners of health food startups or they run boutique sleepwear shops or invent ethical cleaning products while tending to their Monstera plants. They go to farmers markets on weekends. Meanwhile I potter around the house in yoga pants, overthinking, heating up leftover Pad Thai for dinner and procrastinating on updating my website, while my fern yellows at an alarming rate.
I used to dress up for work. It was part of my fashion writer job. I’d go vicious at sample sales and hoard shoes in my desk drawers, all to get compliments in meetings. I’ve long suspected that my carefully curated wardrobe may have been the reason for my promotions and general good standing at the office. I really did take the adage “dress for the job you want” to heart. But that’s ancient history. I’ve gone freelance, read spiritual books on clearing space to call in abundance and now my once-prized ensembles are scattered around the internet and friends’ closets.
Never look back, they said.
My flat white is ready and Rich, the barista hands me a steaming cup. He smiles a conspirator smile and tells me to look up #laughingmancoffee on Instagram. There, buried deep under snaps of hands holding paper cups and muffins is yours truly, clad in a leather jacket and punk boots, perched on a chair outside the coffee shop, absentmindedly petting a waiting dog. I have no recollection of the picture being taken. I guess I must have been too busy wishing I was somebody else.