8 am:
The alarm goes off. ‘Young and Beautiful’ by Lana Del Rey. I jump off the bed.
I look in the mirror and do my morning affirmations:
Feeling is freeing.
The future is female.
If you have to smash something, smash the patriarchy.
Potential Girlfriend #1 has sent me a message: I really feel like calling him. What should I doooooo?
My response:
Be strong. Remember that he doesn’t respect you.
[Subtext: You know who does respect you, right?]
Wanna come see me perform at the open-mic feminist poetry slam tonight?
8:30 am:
I show up for my yoga class, but the instructor (Competitor #4) tells me that he doesn’t think I’m serious about learning yoga and that I should stop coming. He cites the fact that I only show up 10 minutes before the hour-long class ends and then ‘hang around’ for a half-hour afterwards ‘trying to make conversation’ with the other women in the class.
I take offense at his use of the phrase ‘trying to’ and show him all the phone numbers I’ve been given. As I do this, I smile and wave at Potentials #4, #6, and #9 inside. They don’t smile or wave back, and shut their eyes in meditation.
8:45 am:
I put on an N95 mask and decide to head to the gym instead. I pick up a pair of dumbbells and start doing bicep curls. I stare at myself in the mirror and start vibing with the Punjabi music blaring over the speakers. It feels good to be anonymous and doing some real exercise for a change.
I notice a woman (8/10) standing next to me, looking annoyed. I immediately take my mask off and complain to her about the misogynist Punjabi songs playing over the speakers and ask the staff to turn it off.
The woman tells me she’s been waiting to use the machine. I get up and offer to help her. She ignores me and doubles the weight load. I put my face mask back on to hide my shock.
8:55 am:
After the woman leaves, I sit back down at the machine. I increase the weight load even further and pull down with all my strength.
9:34 am:
I go to the pharmacy and ask for a neck brace. They have one in three different colours and I pick the pink one. I knew I sprained my neck for a reason.
10:30 am:
As I do my skincare—Barbara Sturm moisturiser, CeraVe sunscreen, a spritz of Le Labo Santal 33—I make a mental note to ask my NRI cousin for an Aesop bodywash restock. I put on a pair of baggy faded denims, a white T-shirt with a picture of Malala on it, a beige cardigan, and a pink beanie to match my neck brace. There’s just one thing left to complete my look.
10:38 am:
I go to my tote rack and browse through the options. I narrow it down to a) my New Yorker tote and b) the Amnesty tote that says ‘Consent in the Sheets, Dissent in the Streets’. I can’t choose. I finally close my eyes and pick one at random.
11 am:
The barista asks me for my order and I say—loud enough for everyone in the coffee shop to hear—I want a matcha latte.
I sit down at a table and take out of my copy of bell hooks’ All About Love and begin reading it for the 37th time, with the hope that someone will take my picture and post it to the ‘Hot Dudes Reading’ Instagram page.
11:15 am:
I notice a man with a mullet sitting at a table drinking matcha and reading a book of sapphic poetry. I go over and tell him he needs to find another coffee shop to go to, or at least another drink to drink. He points at my tee and tells me that I should go back to when Malala was relevant... in 2014. While we’re arguing, we both notice a woman going from table to table, in a state of mild discomfort, asking each female customer for something. They’re all shaking their heads.
I dart back to my table and take a tampon out of my tote bag, but by the time I look up the other guy has already given the woman the tampon she needs. She hugs him tightly.
I hold up the tampon and ask if anyone else in the shop is menstruating.
1 pm:
I’m in an editorial meeting at the lifestyle magazine I work for. I pitch an article about all the reasons men need therapy. The woman sitting next to me (Potential Girlfriend #2) turns around and asks what I’m doing in the meeting, considering I work in the finance department and have never written an article. I try to convince her that I’m on her side, and to prove it, inform her that she’s getting paid less than the male writers on the team. I turn to the editor and threaten to quit if her salary isn’t increased. My editor says that he doesn’t know who I am and what I’m doing there anyway.
1:15 pm:
I wait in the hallway outside the office with a box of my stuff. Potential Girlfriend #2 doesn’t follow me out.
I guess I’m all in on Potential Girlfriend #1 then. I message her and ask if she’d like to come over for a home-cooked meal tonight. I just went to the farmers’ market for my weekly organic grocery haul and have a notebook of my grandmother’s recipes I’ve been meaning to crack open.
2 pm:
I go for a job interview at a women’s magazine. I show up at the office and see that there are two other women waiting to be interviewed for the same position. I loudly proclaim that their voice is more important than mine. I wish them luck and walk out.
2:15 pm:
I wait in the hallway outside the office. Yet again, no one follows me out.
3 pm:
I go back to the previous magazine and ask for my job back. I promise never to interrupt an editorial meeting again or to reveal an employee’s salary. I’m reinstated with a hefty pay cut that I feel good about, now that I’m probably at par with the other women in the office.
4 pm:
I see my female colleague walking over to my desk, prompting me to minimise my spreadsheets and start playing my Laufey playlist on YouTube.
She asks me where I got my tote from. We get chatting, and wow, she’s really interested in everything I do on a normal day. I think she’s become Potential Girlfriend #2 again.
5 pm:
Potential Girlfriend #1 finally replies and says yes to my dinner invitation but suggests we meet at a sushi restaurant. I guess the farmers’ market sourdough can wait.
6 pm:
I sneak out of work early, a spring in my step and corded earphones in my ears, excited at the prospect of finally consummating my love for Potential Girlfriend #1.
I stop at the salon and get the same mullet haircut as the man from the coffee shop, which I’m informed is a ‘wolfcut’. I also ask them to paint four of my nails and show them a picture of Bad Bunny for reference.
On my way home, I come across a candlelight protest march and make sure to join in and wave into a television camera. I forget what it was for: A war? Pesticides? Something important, I’m pretty sure.
7 pm:
I sweep and mop my entire house (my housekeeper only comes once a month to collect her salary, as per my instructions) and light five sticks of incense in case we decide to come back here tonight.
8 pm:
I arrive at the restaurant at the same time as Potential Girlfriend #1 with a bunch of peonies. She gushes at the flowers and asks me how I knew they were her favourite. I tell her I have an instinct about these things. I leave out the part where I stalked her socials for a clue.
She puts her hand on mine and thanks me for being there for her these past few months. If we hadn’t met in the queue outside Magnolia Bakery, she doesn’t know how she would have managed. She then says she has something to confess to me.
I close my eyes and lean in for a kiss. Almost on cue, she gets up and greets someone. I open my eyes and see her ex-boyfriend (dressed in jeans, sneakers, polo shirt—ugh) walking over to our table. She tells me that they’re getting back together. She finally called him today and decided to take him back.
8.30 pm:
I grab the flowers and walk towards the exit. The two are too busy kissing to notice.
8:35 pm:
I stand outside a bar and offer the peonies to the women coming out and then ask them if they need help getting home. They ignore me till I get in their way and promise them I’m not a creep.
8.45 pm:
I ask to use the toilet inside to clean the pepper spray in my eyes, but the bouncer forces me into a taxi.
9:30 pm:
I arrive home to find my bedroom on fire. I realise I forgot to put out the incense.
10 pm:
My apartment is covered in foam from the fire extinguisher. Most of the clothes, books, and skincare products I’ve purchased are ruined. I stare at the debris of this new life and persona I’ve taken on in the last few months and realise it’s just not working.
I throw all my stuff out. I send my maid a message and ask her to come tomorrow to help me clean.
10:30 pm:
I go on Instagram and I’m about to delete my profile, when I see a link to an article that Potential Girlfriend #2 has written.
It follows a day in the life of someone she refers to as ‘the performative male’. I scan the piece and see my routine and habits, just as I had described them to her a few hours ago. I’m about to fire off an indignant, self-righteous comment, when I come across this part:
“Yes, maybe the performance isn’t genuine, but it does take a genuine effort to be this way, and maybe, just maybe, he will end up becoming the thing he tries to be. A good guy.”
My eyes light up. Finally, some recognition. A sign to keep going.
I go out and salvage whatever clothes, books, accessories, and skincare I can from the pile outside.
11 pm:
I fall asleep, a smile on my face, ready to start all over again tomorrow.
