Edition #175: The Time I Got Catfished by a Supermodel
Because we all need a light-hearted, insane story right now. Plus, the perfect AI girlfriend, a profile on Billie Eilish, and Americans' favorite food
I had a different essay planned for today. Something heartfelt, a tearjerker. But alas, I am wrapping up my final days in New York, knee-deep in the endless logistics of moving, and trying to assess the extent of Hurricane Milton’s destruction to my family in Florida. In summary, I don't have it in me to get that deep today. Instead, I bring you a wacky tale that perfectly sums up nearly a decade living in New York—unpredictable, funny, and a little insane. Enjoy!
A Note From the Editor
When I look back to the gall I had while dating in 2018, I am both impressed and baffled. To set the scene: I was 25 years old at the start of that year and living deep in the East Village with two roommates. I went out often. I was meeting men in nightclubs, at bars, at birthday parties. I hadn’t yet started therapy, so I didn’t know the first thing about my deeper self, nor was I particularly ready to explore her.
It was a simple and deceptively tumultuous time in the way only your 20s can be. I would bust my ass in 6 am workout classes before going into the office, work, work, work all week, go on intensely restrictive crash diets to test my willpower, and get very drunk with my friends each weekend—all the while, casually and consistently dating 3 or 4 men simultaneously.
There was the WASPY bro I met at a dive bar at the tail end of SantaCon (LOL), the 40-something year old divorced father on the Upper East Side who loved giving me career advice, the B-list actor who once ordered a Côtes du Rhône at a shitty bar in my neighborhood and was given a coke-and-rum instead, the list goes on. All of these men I met in real life. For whatever reason, I decided it might also be fun to meet men in the then-novice way: online.
Chapter 1: The Artsy Brit
I met the Artsy Brit on Hinge. We matched at the perfect time; I was working for a London-based company and had a quick work stopover planned after my summer trip to the Amalfi Coast. I solicited his London recommendations eagerly. Every place he suggested that t I tried had a distinct vibe, leading me to assume he was cool and in-the-know. He was also tall, cute, accented, and well-dressed. I was pleased by this information.
When I returned to New York in August, we decided to meet for a casual Sunday afternoon drink in Williamsburg, which turned into a lazy evening in Domino Park. It felt easy, so easy that we would continue to date for the remainder of the year. I would sleep over the industrial-style loft he shared with his fashion photographer best friend and we’d watch movies projected onto the wall. Once, he spent all day making us a bolognese for dinner; I introduced him to the American cultural staple that is Chick-fil-A. He complimented me for being enthusiastic, a quality he deemed supremely rare. His friends were the unaffected, cigarette-smoking types for whom showing any form of enthusiasm was considered abhorrent, while I was a newly minted 26-year old from Florida.
Despite our closeness, I never wondered whether he would be my boyfriend. The lack of insecurity I felt about the cadence of our communication combined with my continued desire to date all my other faux boyfriends kept me satiated and secure in our position, whatever it was. It wasn’t until my sister pointed out that if I didn’t want to be exclusive with him by now, I probably wasn't interested enough to keep things going. She had a point, but I was having fun and didn't see a reason to cut things off just yet. Also, winter break was coming. We wouldn't see each other for a while and things would naturally sort themselves out. I wasn't worried about it.
Chapter 2: The Supermodel
Before break, though, he wanted me to meet his dear friend. I didn’t know she was a Supermodel before I met her. They had been sharing a drink at a moody bar in Brooklyn when I walked in. She was wearing chunky, beat-up combat boots and a oversized hoodie. Confident, I thought, for it was a Friday night and everyone was just dressed up enough to look like they weren't trying to dress up, while she really wasn't trying. It took me a few minutes to notice the perfect symmetry of her face, the flawless sheen of her skin, the intrigue of her features.
The three of us got a drink, then another. She was lovely and captivating, not a smidge of makeup, a subtle gap between her two front teeth. She pulled out two samples of ceramic tile from her bag; she was renovating her apartment and wanted our opinion on which tile was best. The Artsy Brit commented how only a supermodel could afford her own apartment in DUMBO before the age of 30. Just then she stood up, towering a full head over me, and the no makeup and hoodie made sense.
She told all kinds of wild stories; about her Italian lover and casually sleeping with her best girlfriend in high school because they were bored at a slumber party. She suggested moving to another bar, her favorite in the neighborhood. The Artsy Brit gave me a look—we had ordered takeout at the bar, not thinking we'd be out this long—but the night felt young and I was having fun. The Artsy Brit ran to meet the delivery man, leaving me and the Supermodel alone for a drink.
When it was just the two of us, I told her I liked her gap tooth. I admitted to feeling self-conscious about the slight imperfections of my teeth. She had me to open my mouth, inspecting my teeth like a dentist. They were perfect, she said, and I should not change a thing. She asked how old I was and was surprised to learn we were the same age. She was used to being the youngest, she said, because the Artsy Brit and his crew friends were all in their mid-30s.
By the time we departed, I felt I had planted the seed of a potential new friendship. The Artsy Brit was elated. “She never likes any of the girls I bring around,” he said, “but she loved you!” The next morning, as I was leaving his apartment, he was meeting the Supermodel for brunch and asked if I wanted to join. I declined, figuring they might want to debrief about last night. I imagined they would talk about me; she would approve.
Riding back into Manhattan that morning, I felt I had made it. I was living in New York, hanging out with cool Europeans after casually traveling to Europe over the summer. I imagined telling my friends that I had spent Friday night with a Supermodel, which prompted me to look her up on Instagram. She was far more famous than I might've guessed. Chanel campaigns, Vogue Italia covers, Versace runway shows, the whole nine yards. After some consideration, I decided to play it cool and not follow her. I was curious whether she might follow me; she didn't. After that night, I mostly forgot about her. Life went on.
Chapter 3: The Brief Friendship
My intuition had been correct. Winter break came and went, the Artsy Brit and I lost momentum. I was hung up on a guy who had ghosted me earlier that year and whom I was trying, unsuccessfully, to be “just friends” with. I was also traveling around Europe with my younger brother. There was a promise of newness in the air. I wanted love. I wanted a job I liked. I wanted to spend more time writing, something I was just beginning to seriously explore. I had just started a book club that would eventually blossom into a new group of friends in New York, opening the door to the rest of my life here.
When the Artsy Brit reached out to hang in the new year, it felt like our time had passed. I was taking a swing at maturity—a new lesson my therapist was teaching me—and told him that if neither of us felt compelled to be exclusive by now, there was probably a good reason. I proposed being just friends and I meant it. He agreed.
We hung out as just friends once, in January of 2019. We ate noodles and went on a walk around my neighborhood, catching up about what had happened to each of us over break. It felt like it had on our first date; easy and fun, but without the pressure of romance. He said he could tell I was putting energy into things I cared about—writing, making new friends, exploring myself—and that he was proud of me. I was proud of me, too.
Chapter 4: The Message
And then, a month later, everything went awry. I was in Napa Valley, attempting to unwind on the tail end of a 12-day work trip to San Francisco. A group of friends and I were spending the day on a wine tour. One stop in, I texted the Artsy Brit to say hello and check in. He replied immediately; I miss you too, kid, but I don’t really get what happened. You said you wanted to be just friends and then you sent that message to my friend, the Supermodel. If you felt that way, you should’ve just said it.
What message? I asked. He took a moment to reply and I started panicking. Had I gotten wasted and sent the Supermodel a message? But how would that have happened, for I didn’t even have her number and hadn’t followed her, I hadn't even followed her on Instagram. In truth, I mostly forgot about her after that night. Still, I checked my inbox and sent messages to be sure. A few moments later, the Artsy Brit sent me this:
I was dumbfounded. I asked the Artsy Brit whether his friend had shown him this message in her Instagram inbox or whether she had sent him a photo of the message; the latter, naturally. I asked him whether he thought it strange that, after six months of knowing and texting me, I had suddenly started using British spelling.
It's all very weird, huh, he said. I thought it was totally out of character too so I was confused. Then, You should check if you got hacked.
A lot of things happened in my brain at once. First, surprise at how clueless the Artsy Brit was turning out to be, for no one had ever sent the Supermodel that message, not from my account or any account, but I wasn't going to be the one to tell him that. Second, a touch of admiration that he was so trusting of his friend. Third and most predominately, a wound tore open inside of me. I’m a passionate person. Remember, I was just starting out therapy at the time, only beginning to scratch the surface of my insecurities. I recounted that night meeting the Supermodel. I had been comfortable so I was totally being myself. We laughed together, we joked. I was excitable. Yet while I left thinking it had gone well, that she had loved me, her takeaway was that I was a passionate person. Read, too intense. Too much. A little crazy. I felt mortified that I had gotten it so wrong.
I was also pissed off and confused, but the embarrassment took center stage. This girl, this Supermodel who had been a guest at the Met Gala, had spent a few hours with me and saw right to the heart of my deepest insecurity. And then, for reasons I still don’t entirely understand, had exploited it in a strange, manipulative way. That the Artistic Brit would ever entertain the idea that I might send a message like that—not just ludicrous, but poorly worded!—was enough to show me we would never be real friends.
After a bit of messaging with him back and forth, I acted swiftly. I blocked him from my texts and I blocked them both on Instagram. It was a new year; I had a lot of change to enact in my life and in myself. I didn’t want people like that anywhere in my periphery. Also, I was a shameless avoidant.
Chapter 5: The Validation
A few weeks later, I got several phone calls from a number I didn’t know while at work. I sent them all to voicemail. A few moments later, this message came through:
If I initially felt a little bad for cutting off all contact with the Artistic Brit, my empathy fizzled out when I realized he had given the Supermodel my phone number. I never replied to her message; just blocked her number and went about my life.
I would occasionally wonder what transpired in those few weeks between my initial blockings and her message to me. I hoped the Brit wised up a bit, that he realized what was so obvious, but I never unblocked him to find out.
And that, my friends, is the story of the time I got…..catfished?…by a Supermodel.
_____
Cheers, my dears, and as always thanks for reading. I leave New York Sunday and until then, I will be going cross eyed trying to finish up packing, running errands, and downsizing my godforsaken storage unit. Say a prayer for me.
In the meantime, have a wonderful weekend. Eat an apple cider donut, go for an aimless drive, listen to classical music with the windows open.
Three Pieces of Content Worth Consuming
The Perfect Girlfriend. I’ve recently tried engaging more frequently with ChatGPT and a funny thing has happened—the more I use it, the less afraid I am about AI coming for my job. The information it gives is often incorrect and blandly generic, which, according to this article, is the perfect recipe for a virtual girlfriend. The most interesting points to consider about the rise of the AI romantic partner: is it cheating if you’re having an emotional affair with a bot? In the current culture of validating all feelings, are we to take someone's love for their bot companion as seriously as a relationship between two humans? Are women ever going to follow the men's lead and get AI partners? Doubt it, but interesting to consider.
Young People Are Checking Out of Life. After a few years of sending out this newsletter, I’ve noticed the light-hearted, less “serious” links are the ones that get the most clicks. I get it—when I’m scanning through an edition on a random Tuesday, I’m more interested in knowing what cake someone is baking than reading some glum story. But if you’re open to a healthy bit of contemplation, this video is worth a watch. In the video, a hot man is reading from this essay, which is n astute observation of our pervading culture of apathy and emptiness.
“Thanks to the internet and our insatiably consumerist culture, it is finally possible to distract yourself for every waking minute of your life and barely even notice you’re doing it.”
The more I’ve slowed down, stepped away from the internet, and started meditating regularly, the more this truth has become clear. It’s like my mind and soul have gone through a car wash. Read the article for a proposed resolution to this condition—which, I would argue, most people don’t even realize they/we have.
Billie Eilish Has Grown Up. I’ll read anything
writes, especially if it’s a profile of one of the cutest, most talented pop stars of our time. I don’t think I realized how young Eilish was when she became famous—a literal teenager! By that measure, it’s a wonder she hasn’t gone totally off the rails by now, but is instead continuing to come into her own as an artist. Reading this profile felt like taking a crispy sip of cold seltzer; refreshing, cheery, and special in a perfectly ordinary way.
Perhaps You Should….Tell Me Your Favorite Candle
Attempting to prepare for life in a town with no addresses, and by extension, no online shopping, has sent me into a panic shopping spiral. Let’s just say I bought a pair of shoes I never thought I’d own—they won’t see the light of day but will be wonderful house slippers. I also bought several different sunscreens to try, including this one and this one, and some super cute surf suits from a cool women-owned small biz. These are my new favorite yoga shorts. So soft and so high-waisted that I purchased several pieces from the line.
I’m in the market for some candles to bring with me on my journey. I like scents that are woodsy, masculine, seasonal, and fresh, but nothing too floral and absolutely nothing artificial. Ideally, not in a crazy heavy glass jar. If you have a favorite candle recommendation that fits the bill, please send it my way!
**Bonus Content** (America’s Favorite Food)
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He’s not wrong, and this couldn’t be more right.
Also, I tried watching this show and hated it, so catch me back here instead—I stand by it! As per my October tradition, going to be watching this movie as soon as I make it to my new home at the end of the month. Never gets old.
A Quote From A Book You Should Read:
“She was explaining to me that I had won nothing, that in the world there is nothing to win, that her life was full of varied and foolish adventures as much as mine, and that time simply slipped away without any meaning, and it was good just to see each other every so often to hear the mad sound of the brain of one echo in the mad sound of the brain of the other.”
-The Story of a New Name by Elena Ferrante