The Season of Discomfort

It's renovation season.

I’m writing this during a minor heat-induced psychosis, courtesy of the Los Angeles heatwave. I live in a building with no AC and a ton of charm. Window units aren’t allowed, for the building’s aesthetic reasons, and floor units are ugly, for my own aesthetic reasons. When I toured the building, they kept bragging about a cross breeze, and I breezed right past that statement, too excited to live in a classic LA building. Turns out it’s true—I do have a cross breeze. So don’t feel too bad for me. But keep reading anyway.

Lately, it feels like there’s nowhere else in the world to run. You just have to hunker down in your own weather.

Everyone seems to be consulting their own calendar right now. It’s either Mercury in retrograde, a full moon, or the universe has another explanation for why things feel off or great. I’ve never been much of an astrology person. I was always more of a healers-on-WhatsApp person. But I do like checking in with the Jewish calendar, and it turns out this season is right on time.

We’re in the Three Weeks (July 2–23), the period between the walls of Jerusalem being breached and the destruction of the Temple. It’s traditionally the saddest stretch on the Jewish calendar, but I’ve always liked that Judaism doesn’t ask us to stay sad—it asks us to pay attention. Notice what’s broken. Then decide what to rebuild. If you can keep track of Mercury in retrograde, you can handle a 3,000-year-old calendar.

Apparently, my algorithm had the same idea. A TikTok from Sir Tony Robbins—not technically Sir Tony Robbins, but doesn’t it sound like he should be?—found me this week. He said the one skill that separates people who build the life they want from the people who settle is the ability to tolerate discomfort.

I think he’s right, even if he is talking about discomfort from his yacht!

The nice thing about the Three Weeks is they end and they are ending this Thursday night! You don’t ignore what’s fallen apart, but you don’t live there forever either. You take inventory, then you rebuild. It’s renovation season. And the annoying thing about renovation is that most of the time you still have to live there while it’s happening.

So here are a few things that made the construction a little more livable these past few weeks.

What I’m Watching

The Five-Star Weekend on Peacock. This is adapted from Elin Hilderbrand’s novel. I’ve never read Hilderbrand, and that stops now. She’s written over 30 books about Nantucket, and I see why. Someone invite me to Nantucket ASAP. I’m convinced this is one of the best beach-read adaptations we’ve gotten in a long time. Chloe Sevigny as a “Tuck” townie is genius casting. I think we’ll look back and say Peacock quietly gave us some of the most consistently good television. I don’t do Love Island, but plenty of you do—and between that and shows like All Her Fault, they’ve really found a lane. Keep it up, Peacock.

I also watched Backrooms—the A24 one based on the internet horror phenomenon everyone’s obsessed with. (For the record, I loved Obsession.) I didn’t get this one. Not even a little. But I did feel oddly accomplished for watching something so culturally massive. Sometimes that’s enough.

I also watched Elle, the Legally Blonde prequel. It’s funny how they made Seattle feel like the scariest place our beloved main character could possibly end up. More than anything, it was just a pleasure to spend time in the ‘90s again. This isn’t a show for everyone, but if your ideal summer TV is cozy colors and low-stakes storylines, you’ll probably have a nice time.

One more accomplishment: I saw The Odyssey.

I know. Not exactly my type of movie. I didn’t even see it in 70mm, and I’m still not entirely sure what 70mm means. But I was disproportionately proud of myself for following it. It felt biblical in every sense of the word. More than anything, it reminded me how much fun it is to go to the movies again. I’m highly considering an AMC A-List membership. And no, not just for the AC breaks.

What I’m Eating & Drinking

Alison Roman’s Golden Granola with Sour Cherries is blowing my mind. I sprinkle it on everything. I had to stop myself from putting it in my morning coffee. I was that excited for breakfast. Order from First Bloom.

Summer Drink

I don’t drink wine, for kosher reasons I won’t get into—it makes wine bars kind of a bust. But this week I went to Ètra and ordered a Spaghett. Apparently a Spaghett is my drink of the summer. Beer and Campari? Who knew. I also heard a rumor Ètra is getting a cocktail license in the fall. What am I, Eastside Rag?

What I’m Reading

I have a pattern, apparently. I read one page of a book, decide everyone is too excited about it, conclude it’s not for me—and then a month later push through and read the whole thing in one obsessive sitting. I don’t know what this says about me, but I don’t like it. Good to know when you’re wrong, though, because I was wrong about both of these.

The first was Heart the Lover by Lily King. The second was London Falling by Patrick Radden Keefe, about a London teenager who died after inventing a fantasy life posing as the son of a Russian oligarch, and his parents’ search afterward to understand who he really was. It eerily reminded me of Rachel Goldberg-Polin. Both mothers are named Rachel, and in Judaism Rachel is a symbolic figure—Rachel Imeinu, endlessly weeping for her children. This book became one long parent’s plea while also being genuinely fascinating on money, power, and corruption in the UK. I can handle a lot of things, but I think I found my limit: oligarchs.

Theory of the Week

Everyone is one of two types: you’re either always worried someone is mad at you, or you’re always mad at someone. I sort of envy the second group, even though they usually take it too far. Thinking everyone is mad at you is a disease you don’t want. Also, I hate when people say, “No one is thinking about you.” They probably are. They might even be mad at you. But here’s the part I’m trying to remember: if I’m spending all day wondering whether someone is mad at me, I’m usually avoiding asking myself a more interesting question. Am I actually the one who’s mad? It’s amazing how often the answer is yes.

So maybe the heat is temporary. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe this is just the new normal. Either way, the assignment stays the same: stop assuming discomfort means something has gone wrong. Sometimes it’s just what renovation feels like.

If this essay doesn’t make sense, blame the heatwave. If it does, credit the cross breeze.