I discovered Lana Del Ray around Christmastime.

I know this sounds a little wild, especially because I was a frequent Tumblr user, a big fan of the Arctic Monkeys, and a proud owner of an Urban Outfitters record player at the age of 13. However, I mostly used Tumblr for One Direction-related fandom activity, I listened to the Arctic Monkeys mainly to say that I listened to them, and my most frequently spun record was 1989 by Taylor Swift. I probably heard Lana a bit here and there at the time everyone else in my demographic was obsessed, but she wasn’t someone I worshipped.

Music is a little difficult for me because I listen to it throughout the entire day, from waking up and working out to commuting to work, all throughout the work day, commuting back home, running errands, and getting ready to go out. I easily become sick of songs, I run out of podcast episodes, and I’m disinterested in all of the AI generated playlists Spotify provides.

What made me stumble upon Lana was listening to a playlist called “this one’s for the this is me trying’ girlies”—as in, girls who can relate a little too hard to Taylor Swift’s this is me trying.

As Lana perfectly fit the archetype Taylor was depicting—someone who’s miserably failing after giving something her all and not being recognized for it—, I was introduced to Norman Fucking Rockwell! and the songs Happiness is a butterfly, How to disappear, and, what really drew me in, Cinnamon girl.

Since this discovery, I cannot be stopped. And there’s truly no better time than my second coming-of-age to be obsessed with someone I may consider to be one of the voices of my generation. She gets it. She gets girlhood. She gets womanhood. Most importantly, she gets teenage womanhood.

Whenever I listen to her music, it’s like the soundtrack to a movie that is my life. I have cringe main character energy, and I simply don’t care. I walk around pretending like I’m in an indie film, as an effortlessly chic girl with tousled hair, smoky eyeliner, a 2012-Serena Van der Woodsen-esque outfit on, walking the streets of Brooklyn, when really I’m just walking to the deli on my lunch break at my very normal corporate job.

The reason we love our favorite artists is because of the ways they make us feel, and the full body experience of a Lana Del Ray song while being just a girl, is simply magic. Her ability to portray femininity in such an honest way, making it elegantly abrasive and raw, is probably why so many people I know (especially as an attendee of art school) were infatuated by her. She has older sister lore. She’s the cool, mysterious girl that everyone whispers about at school and makes up rumors about. She’ll always seem more mature than you no matter what, even when you’re around the same age she was when she wrote songs like Video Games.

It’s weird to be obsessed with her when I have free will. I could smoke cigarettes, but I won’t. I could dye my hair black and style it in a Pricilla Presley-esque manner, but I won’t. I could act on the alt-girl vibes she makes me feel, but, I won’t. These are probably all good choices, and just goes to show that during my teenage woman years, I will just have to ride all of these emotions through till my prefrontal lobe inevitably becomes developed in about a year. For now, I’ll continue listening to Lana Del Ray radio during my long, hard days as a Copywriter, just as I’m sure she intended.

Tune in next week for #04 of Teenage Woman, Olivia in Paris (for the first time ever).

One of the most consistent hardships in my life is having to do tasks without my mom’s help.

I’m not embarrassed to admit this because I believe in my heart that multiple of you all also feel this way.

Having to pick up the phone and make a doctor’s appointment, contact my Super about something wrong in the apartment, or log onto our Con Edison portal to pay a bill on my own is truly my worst nightmare, and it comes true almost every day. As the phrase I’m just a girl encapsulates, doing “big girl” things on my own has proven to cause a lot of strife for me.

This is probably a Gen-Z thing (cringe), but I genuinely despise picking up the phone to talk to another person at the other end. It fills my body with immense anxiety, and when it’s a serious conversation, I don’t know how to carry myself. I’ll take every other possible route to not call someone, whether it’s showing up to a restaurant in person to make a reservation, scouring the internet for some sort of online scheduling, or simply putting off haircuts for weeks at a time until my hair reaches Duggar Sister status.

I’m getting better at it, and I do believe practice makes perfect. Calling the lunch spot near my office to ask what the soup of the day is, three times a week for six months, is like exercising a tiny, little muscle in my brain, and one day, maybe I won’t succumb to nausea when I have to pick up the phone and schedule my next visit to the OBGYN.

Whenever I do a task like go to the post office or the dry cleaner, or even sometimes in meetings, I feel like the Boss Baby. Like a child wearing their mother’s heels, click-clacking around and pretending to be a real person. Even at Trader Joe’s, when I try to figure out what I actually want to eat for the week, and then inevitably have to go home and spend an hour cooking it for just myself, it’s hard to ignore the overwhelming feeling of not knowing what I’m doing, and the pure exhaustion of it all.

I fear that this whole thing is coming across as tone-deaf. Complaining about things that people manage doing every single day—plus the additional weight of being human and going through the tribulations we get tossed from time-to-time, I understand is not attractive. Life really can’t be that tough when I’m able to say things like “the burger at the Polo Bar is overrated.”

It’s giving:

The reality of it all is, I can still be honest about these overwhelming moments that take place during my second puberty and my Teenage Woman years, despite how minute they may be. Sometimes, you have to hit rock bottom trying to find a dentist on ZocDoc before you can really shine.

Having to go through those dark moments in a windowless basement, two levels underground that masquerades as a real grocery store, is creating a callus over my self consciousness meter. While I may feel tingling in my fingertips when trying to decide which bell peppers to get, at the same time, I’m venturing out into the world and finding happiness in things that I wouldn’t be caught dead doing alone when I was seventeen.

I’ve begun romanticizing the idea of being alone, which to be fair, is pretty easy in a city like New York. Sitting at a table and eating dinner somewhere alone with a book or just my phone is treating myself in a Carrie Bradshaw way, and I no longer let my brain trick me into thinking it’s because I have no friends. I spend hours in the park all by my lonesome. I’ll look for things to do like tickets to talks or pop-up shops that interest just me, and I still go even if there’s no one to go with.

There are millions of people who have always felt comfortable doing the above things on their own, and I’ve always looked up to them. I can’t tell you how many things I personally skipped out on because I had no one to go with, and I was too terrified to be seen by myself (who was looking at me? we may never know…). I wish so desperately I could go back and tell myself that I should stop caring what everyone else probably doesn’t even think, but telling an 18-year-old that has basically the same amount of impact as whispering it to myself in a dark room.

After I spent my birthday at Buvette, drinking a latte and reading Andy Cohen’s memoir, or went to my first seminar 92nd Street Y, or successfully picked out items from Zara on a solo mission without consulting anyone, or learned how to set up my 401k without calling my mom urgently—I felt like a real person. And I felt so happy.

That doesn’t mean that don’t I still panic every time I get an unmarked phone call, or that the idea of having to eventually have my own insurance makes me dizzy, but we’re all about progress Coffee Order. One solo-croque-madame at Buvette is one small step towards being someone who can decide what credit card to get without bothering everyone they know.

he next installment of Teenage Woman will be out next Tuesday. Stay tuned for Teenage Woman: Going Through Your Lana Del Ray Phase at 23 | #3.

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I’m coming to terms with the end of a long term relationship in my life. A 10+ year love, dedication, and investment into Brandy Melville.

I remember the day it sent shockwaves in my middle school. We were in the eighth grade, and some girls, who had no idea the impact they were about to have, arrived to school wearing graphic muscle tee’s featuring moon phases, the words “Stay Weird” upside down, and various bands that we had no business supporting as we had no clue who The Clash were.

Ever since then, my wardrobe staples have never lacked Brandy. All through high school, college, and into my adult life, I’ve turned to them for the most perfect white tee, super soft basics, sweaters, pajamas, and even sometimes a semi-real top I can wear out.

I try to pay a visit to my local Brandy Melville every few weeks, picking up a few new things for under $100 that I need refreshed. It’s like going to Trader Joe’s for me. There’s one near my hometown, and there are two within a 30 minute radius of my apartment, so I’m no stranger to digging through endless one-size-fits-all stacks.

Last weekend, I was home for President’s Day, and decided I wanted to take a trip down memory lane and go shopping at the Brandy Melville that started it all for me. I knew they had just launched pajama pants, and was due for a refresh on long sleeves for the winter (not really).

When I arrived, I instantly filled my pile with things to try on, from multiple colors of the new pajama pants, to blouses, sweaters, you name it. This isn’t something I would normally do at Brandy, but considering I’m trying to be a bit more spend conscious, I wanted to make sure everything looked good before buying and inevitably having to return for just store credit.

And thank God I did.

After waiting in a line ran by a 17-year-old, I was standing in a fitting room barely held together by what I think are bedsheets (?), faced with a harsh realization. These clothes weren’t fitting me anymore.

The shirts were too tight across my back onto my shoulders, the pants were ultra low-rise and up to my mid-shin, and sweaters that I thought would hit at the hip were serving belly button in an unwanted way.

Brandy Melville, for those of you unfamiliar, has been subject to immense controversy since its conception for being “one size fits all”, catering only to the small end of the spectrum, with some select oversized styles. Of course, not everything has always fit me. I don’t think a single one of their tailored pants or cargos could fit over my hips, but I do love their sweatpants and consider them an integral part of my closet.

As I moved through each piece in that structurally unsound fitting room, I was full of dread. It’s a feeling most girls can relate to, no matter your personal levels of self consciousness. It’s simply not fun to try things on that don’t fit. Especially at a place that meant so much for so long.

I know it sounds silly, but Brandy Melville served itself as a true pillar for me. Part of the reason why I felt so defeated was because I felt…directionless. Where would I shop now? Where would I get the perfect white tank top for $18? Who do I turn to now?

The fact of the matter is that I probably should’ve stopped shopping at Brandy Melville upon college graduation, maybe even a little earlier. I was a member of the club that preached how amazing the basics were and that’s why I still bought those there, but in reality, it’s time for me to put my big girl pants on, and invest in quality clothing elsewhere. Nothing says “I’m a woman” like someone asking you where your shirt is from, and you say “Uniqlo”.

So what did I do after what I look back on now as such a pivotal moment? I handed all six pieces back into the arms of the teen waiting for me without a single word, and marched across the street to J.Crew. An extremely chic woman, who I could approximate to be in her 50’s, instantly greeted me with poise, assistance, and true insight into dressing like a real person.

Although I left J.Crew empty handed, it felt like I was metamorphosing. I was leaving behind the old mindset, and moving into a brighter future ahead, even if it didn’t seem like it in the moment.

Do the Olsen Twins wear Brandy Melville? Maybe, but I wouldn’t put money on it. Does Zoë Kravitz even know that Brandy Melville is a store and not a person? Probably not. Has Dakota Johnson ever experienced not being able to find the same shirt twice (because as my dear coworker likes to say, Brandy Melville tank tops are like snowflakes, no two are the same)? I’m also going to go with no.

While I move forward, I’m still going to hold the pieces I currently have close to my chest, until they get yellow in the armpits or riddled with holes. I still have band tees from when I was 14 that I can’t picture parting ways with. I’m sure I’ll find my way back into a Brandy Melville, but for now, I’m going to treat each walk-past like seeing a bad ex boyfriend—with grace, integrity, and pretending like I don’t see it.

The next installment of Teenage Woman will be out next Tuesday. Stay tuned for Teenage Woman: doing big girl things by yourself | #2.

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My friends and I have decided that we’re going through a second puberty—and nobody warned us about it.

There are definitely physical changes, but something more pressing are the mental/societal changes that we’re facing post-grad.

Brandy Melville clothes don’t fit anymore, but I still feel a weird sense of authority over me from the 16-year-old manager behind the checkout.

I manage paying both Con Edison and Spectrum Internet every month, but I still text my mother in a full-blown panic every time I need to make a doctor’s appointment, semi-expecting her to just do it for me.

I compare grocery prices from store to store down to the cent, but I’m still nervous every time I have to walk up to a seafood or deli counter, and don’t exactly know what to ask for.

The list is endless, which has motivated me to start my first-ever series on Coffee Order, aptly titled Teenage Woman. Each week, I plan to share topics, short stories, and opinions on my newfound journey of puberty II, or life as a Teenage Woman™️.

Launching tomorrow, please enjoy Teenage Woman: breaking up with Brandy Melville | #01. As a teaser ahead of time, here is me on my first day of high school, sporting Brandy Melville shorts, looking awkward as all hell.

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