5:30 a.m.
Physically lurch myself out of bed with the full force of a collapsing star to get to the perfect morning choreographed sweat sesh with my dalai lama, Valentina, at SoulCycle.
7 a.m.
Swing by Starbucks, ’cause I’m like any good character on a CW drama that only runs on iced coffee. Plus, I always bring my partner a coffee when I come home. ’Cause he[’s] real cute, and who wouldn’t want to wake up to caffeine!
7:30 a.m.
Take center stage in the mirror and proceed to turn this hot mess express into a whole lotta YAAS, using prayer of course, but mainly the lifesaving magic I acquire from Bluemercury in Highland Park Village.
8:15 a.m.
Begin the ever-masochistic task of picking my lewk for the day while perfecting my Lizzo choreography (because she’s the perfect antidote to that kind of self-sabotage).
9:30 a.m.
Meet one of my favorite females for fashionable breakfast fare at Park House. That acai bowl is almost too beautiful to eat. (Keyword: almost.)
11:30 a.m.
Make my trifecta of shop stops at Market, Canary, and V.O.D. to see what’s new and torture myself with things I don’t need but definitely feel I vehemently deserve.
*Undisclosed time:
Starbucks part deux and at least 20 minutes of mindless convo with my mama while I check the latest edits on Net-a-Porter.
2 p.m.
Meet another bombshell queen (seriously, how lucky am I?) for a light lunch with a side of heavy gossip at Le Bilboquet, because I have an intense devotion to their Chicken Paillard. It’s deep and it’s real.
3:30 p.m.
Meet yet another chic-stress to do a final dress rehearsal for the dinner party she’s hosting tonight.
4:45 p.m.
Head home to get ready for the aforementioned faboosh dinner party, with a new party blouse in tow that I just couldn’t say no to while at Neiman Marcus. What can I say? I’m a man who loves a little TFW—treat for working.
11 p.m.
Whataburger. All the Whataburger.
