Day in the life of a performative Male

I wake up early, 6 a.m. to be exact, with the sun streaming in through the windows of my Brooklyn apartment. My bed is perfectly made, sitting right in the middle of my room with two main pillows and four throw pillows on top. (I’ve got to have room if I were ever to have a guest, after all.) 

The morning starts as it always does, with a new entry in my dream journal. I once read that dreams are the connection to your body’s total and absolute desires, and I have held on to that fact ever since. In my journal, I write that I dreamt about a wildflower-covered field, with a lone tree in the middle (a perfect spot for reading), and a blue sky filled with puffy, white clouds overhead.

That was an absolute lie. In reality, the dream was about a rubber duck chasing me through the streets of Gotham City, but that doesn’t matter. Spiritually, I dreamt of the tree. 

I stretch out of bed and find my way over to the tiled, mid-century bathroom where I perform a 12-step skincare routine. I don’t exactly know what odd concoction I’m putting on my face, but the women at the small, local skincare shop across the street told me it would be perfect for my skin (which was already as soft as a baby’s).

After the skincare routine, I put on my baggy pants, baby-green button-up shirt, loafers, and women’s sunglasses. I pack my Strand bookstore tote bag containing a Walkman, wired headphones, and a copy of Normal People. Finally, I begin my walk to the nearest authentic matcha-serving, vegan café. 

My café of choice is where a bodega used to be. I complain about the rapid gentrification of the city to the girl next to me in line. 

“Don’t you know they’re forcing out businesses and people who have been here for years?” I say. (I had never been to the bodega when it was here. I pay $3500 a month for a studio apartment.)

The girl in front of me orders a strawberry banana oak milk matcha and an ube croissant donut. 

“That’s MY order!” I say. (I’ve never had it before.)

I order next, getting the same strawberry banana oatmilk matcha and ube croissant donut. It costs $19.67. I pay with cash from my recycled wallet that I thrifted from a consignment store. It cost $35, but if anyone asks I’d say it was $3.50. The girl leaves relatively quickly, so I spend the rest of my morning hiding my work for BlackRock with my copy of Normal People. While buying up single-family homes, I read approximately five pages by noon. 

Then, I realize I must make my way to all of my three incredibly essential appointments I have scheduled for today. My first appointment is therapy, obviously. I head home first, filming a “Get Ready With Me for Therapy” video, where I change into a new outfit, review the matcha, and plug three different skin care brands that sponsor me.

When I get to therapy, for some reason, my therapist insists on discussing topics that I have no interest in, like narcissism, my fear of being alone forever, and my need to mask true emotions and beliefs. It's all so stupid. (Doesn’t she know I’m just here so girls think I care about myself?)

My next appointment is pilates, obviously. How else do you think I maintain this physique? Other men think it's so stupid, but I personally believe it's a much better workout than lifting or running or anything. (I lift and run every day.)

The pilates studio, draped in pastels and the melodies of Laufey’s music, is one of my favorite places in the city. I greet my instructor by name; she smiles back. I’m the only man in the class, but I don’t let that stop me. I complete all of the exercises with skills which are unparalleled to the rest of the class. 

After pilates, I head to the spa. I sit in the sauna for a while, to shock my system after the heat (or whatever it’s supposed to do). After the shower, I head to the spa room for my facial. I can’t have any wrinkles appear on this 25-year-old face after all. The facial lasts an hour, during which I fall asleep, and when I wake up I feel even younger than I did this morning! 

After the facial, I remember I have to go into the office this evening. I sneak in, acting like a confused tourist before changing into my business casual wear. (I can’t let anyone know I secretly work for an evil corporate company.) At work I eat the catered meal they give us, making sure to loudly boast about my veganism in front of everyone, before heading back to my desk and half working for the rest of the day.

I bike home because the subway is way too gross this late at night, stopping for dinner at a local expensive, gluten-free, vegan, Greek-Mexican-Indian-Thai fusion restaurant that opened up a few blocks from my house. I order an aperol spritz and sit alone on the patio, reading a grand total of five pages while I eat.

After dinner I head home, and as I must ensure my house is as spotless as my face, I clean the entire thing from top to bottom. Once done, I’m ready to shower the stink of the city off, crawl into bed, and watch a TikTok feed of thousands of men even more performative than me.