Lunch on Friday
Essay #3: myself, Lucien
I wake up on Thursday, July 13, at 7:30 on the dot with no alarm, like I do every morning (despite having gotten home at 1 AM), because my circadian rhythm is unparalleled, for better or for worse. Today is my 26th birthday, but I’ve created the illusion that I’m turning twenty-five by throwing a bigger party than I did for my real 25th birthday last year. Already I have texts from friends wishing me a happy 25th today. Whether I’m turning 25 or 26 (who’s to say), it doesn’t really matter. Age is an illusion. I don’t consider myself a “big birthday person,” but I do consider myself a big party person, which is why I’m very pleased to be using this day as an excuse to bring my friends together. I have a lot to do before tonight which is no surprise. I haven’t stopped moving since July 13, 1997. (Or 1998?)
After a good workout, I pick up my free birthday drink from Starbucks, a corporation I rarely give money to but seemingly always have a gift card for. I order a grande iced latte with oat milk and redeem my birthday reward. “Do you want a venti instead since it’s free?” the kind young person behind the counter asks. “Oh, no, thank you. The grande is fine,” I reply. In my head I hear my mom yelling, “That’s EXCESS! Excess, excess, excess!” — something she says whenever I buy the same dress in two colors or purchase tickets to see The 1975 again (a purchase I’ve made 19 times now). As I’m waiting for my grande beverage, I reflect on these comments by my mom over the years and smile to myself. The 1975 is a band that has been very important to me since 2014, and I used to let it bother me when people wouldn’t understand why I feel the need to see them live multiple times every time they’re on tour. At some point in the last year, I realized I shouldn’t have to explain myself when it comes to the things I love, and I’m continuing to challenge myself to remember that. The 1975 is special to me, and I think that’s enough of an explanation.
I run home to shower and get dressed for my eyebrow appointment with Angie H. at Benefit in the West Village. Angie H. calls out sick a lot and is usually running late, but I stay loyal because we have the same name. I put on a simple outfit composed of a white ribbed Theory t-shirt and denim cutoffs with a vintage belt placed over the shorts. I accessorize with my dainty yellow gold compass necklace and my medallion necklace with the cancer crab on it. A normal person would wear comfortable sneakers or even sandals on this 90° day in New York, but I’m Angelina Hazzouri And I’m Wearing Black Boots. I throw my journal and pen into my early-2000s Balenciaga City Bag, the chicest hand-me-down ever from my fabulous Aunt Sharon. It has a rip in it which makes me feel like a badass and an Olsen twin.
I arrive at Benefit just in time for my eyebrow wax, and Angie H. is surprisingly there and ready for me. She asks what I’m up to today, so I tell her it’s my birthday which apparently means I get a FREE wax. I’m befuddled by this, but I don’t ask questions. I hope everything is free today. Angie H. sings along to the generic pop music playing in the store while I tear up from the worst pain I’ve ever felt as she rips the wax off my brows. Getting your eyebrows waxed hurts worse than getting a tattoo and I stand by that.
Obviously I’m going to go out for lunch because I’ve created work for myself by revolving my Substack around the concept of lunching. I decide to go to Lucien which I know will be the opposite of free, but it’s my birthday! (Cringes from typing that.) The waifish hostess seats me by the window and doesn't smile—you do not come to Lucien to be served with a smile. She asks if I'll have tap, sparkling, or still. “Tap is perfect,” I say, “and I'll have the niçoise, please.” She's scared of me and I'm scared of her, which is how every interaction at Lucien should be. I pull out my journal and check my phone to see what today’s date is. I laugh at myself after doing this. I’ve always loved the date of my birthday because seven is a lucky number and thirteen is an unlucky number, but they both feel lucky to me. Maybe I’m not a big birthday person, but I am a big July 13th person.
I start reflecting on age 25 and flip back to my journal entries from this time last year per a suggestion from one of my best friends, Elise. A common theme of gratitude throughout the last few years has revolved around my friends, both new and old. I’ve never really felt like I had a “friend group.” As far back as pre-school, I would talk to anyone and everyone, collecting friends like lucky pennies and making an effort to maintain the relationships over the years. That is not to trivialize the significance of each relationship, as I do believe in quality over quantity in general, and I of course have people I consider my best friends. As I reflect on this last year of life, I think about the incredible friends I’ve met in the last year all over this city—from parties downtown, to the upper echelon of the internet known as Twitter, to my happy little office building at 10 Hudson Yards (not to be confused with the Edge).
While I’m reflecting on all of this, my salad arrives on a plate that takes up half of the table. My server places it in front of me and then vanishes without a word, probably dissolving into one of the photographs on the wall like they do in Harry Potter. I’m pretty sure that’s where the Lucien staff lives. I take my time to enjoy this birthday meal—tuna niçoise salad is my second favorite thing to order at a French restaurant. As you may have guessed, steak au poivre with frites is the first, but we’re not spending that kind of money at lunch. As I eat, I think about what goals I’d like to set for myself in this next year. Some of my friends joked with me that I need to be meaner. As much as I’d love for people to fear me a little bit, I think having the waitress at Lucien fear me is enough.
After writing some more and finishing with an Americano, I pay my bill of $53.94 which is definitely a lot for a salad and a coffee, but the eyebrow wax and the other coffee were free! And this was worth it.
On my walk home, I stand on the southeast corner of West Broadway and Bleecker Street in the sweltering heat and glance at the Maria Tash store across the street. I spontaneously decide that even though it’s getting late and I still have much to do before tonight, I want to have my nose piercing switched out with a hoop. I enter the store and explain what I’d like and then ask if they can pierce my ear with the stud that was in my nose. This is all going to cost over $100, but after my luxurious Lucien lunch, I’ve decided that money isn’t real when it’s your birthday. (Sorry, Dad, I know you read this. I’m just kidding.) Gabe at Maria Tash successfully switches out the nose ring and also pierces my ear, and both of these procedures hurt less than the eyebrow wax.
I run a few errands on the way back to my apartment in order to prepare for the intimate party before the party, known as a “pregame,” which doesn’t feel like a word I want to use in my chic little newsletter I’m cultivating. When I get home, I take the black plastic cups and black-and-white paper straws out of my utility closet and place them on my kitchen table next to the pink roses my team at work gave me. I make sure my Polaroid camera has film loaded, and I unwrap the 3 disposable cameras I picked up at CVS yesterday. I would love to have a real film camera, but I’ve broken two of them in the last two years. If anyone would like to patiently help me with film camera care, I’m a fast learner. (I seriously don’t know what I’ve been doing wrong. Please help.)
As I’m getting ready for the evening, one of my best friends Jack comes over to give me a birthday gift. I can tell by the way it’s wrapped that it’s a vinyl, but I genuinely have not a clue which album. “Do you know which album it is?” Jack asks as I begin to tear off the red and green candy cane wrapping paper. “No idea.” I soon come to realize as I’m unwrapping this that it’s The Beths’ album “Expert in a Dying Field.” My Christmas present to Jack last year was tickets for us to see them on their tour this past March, and we absolutely loved the show. I love this gift. I love a full-circle moment. I love my best friends.
Jack heads out because he has notified me the previous night that he can no longer attend my pregame, and I can’t get mad at him because I’m Not Mean Enough. I continue getting ready after he leaves, putting on the ivory dress I bought for this occasion in an effort to challenge myself not to wear black. Before I know it, the girls show up and we are drinking tequila sodas (that I didn’t measure) in preparation for the night, taking photos and gushing over each other’s outfits and listening to Rush by Troye Sivan.
My party is amazing. Reading that back it sounds conceited, but I truly am so grateful for how many of my friends (and my mom) have shown up for me. On a Thursday, no less! New friends meet old friends, my mom meets everyone I’ve told her about in the last few years, and I notice everyone keeps saying the same thing to me.
“Your friends are so cool!” says someone I’ve known since freshman year of high school.
“Your friends are so cool!” says someone I met at a downtown scene party.
“Your friends are so cool!” says someone I went to college with in California.
“Your friends are so cool!” says someone I met through a mutual friend via a group chat she added us both to, knowing we’d become instant friends.
My friends are my friends, and they’re all saying the same thing about each other. As I continue hearing this throughout the night, I think about how before I knew these people, I probably saw them from afar and thought that they and their friends were so cool, and here we all are. I think about one of my favorite quotes:
“Remember when you wanted what you currently have.”
I’m so grateful for my friends. They’re special to me. July 13th is special to me too.
No explanation necessary.
