On the corner of Bleeker and Barrow, a slender twenty-something with glossy waves and gazelle legs glided down the sidewalk. She wore a mini skirt, ballet flats, ivory babydoll blouse, and a patent leather yellow Prada shoulder bag. As I watched to clock her outfit, she made her way toward the intersection, stopped at the crosswalk, lifted a worn paperback to her face, and turned a page. I couldn’t help but wonder, is this the aesthetic of the New York it girl? 

A couple months ago, I hit my one year mark of living in Manhattan. I was walking to work and crossing 6th Ave. I had the walk signal. I looked both ways, then both ways again, took one step forward and out of the ether a man on a Citi bike pushing 60 mph grazed my nose. “Fucking asshole!” I screamed. I looked around—no, that couldn’t have come from me. Who was I becoming?

All that to say, I can barely make it to my destination in one piece as is. And while I’m impressed by the street-strutters, crowd-weavers, and multitaskers, the idea of navigating crowds while engaged with a novel—not via an audiobook—feels suspicious. 

When I first moved to the city and started my job, I relished the opportunity every morning to observe what others around me were wearing to their 9-5s — their loafers with frilly crew socks, various shapes and sizes of burgundy Goyard bags, cropped coquette cardigans. I still relish it. On one hand, I like that New York makes us level up — whether it’s what we wear, where we dine, how hard we work, how often we go dancing. It’s invigorating. We’re always doing more and seeing more, getting better and looking better–or trying to. 

But I’m also exhausted. I’m exhausted by my explore feed that shows me reels of a girl walking in biker shorts with a slick back bun and clout sunglasses with the caption “POV: you figured out that 6 am pilates, sauna, oil pulling, dry brushing, tongue scraping, legs up the wall, bone broth, matcha, and gua sha are the morning routine to success and happiness.” 

By the time I’d master such a routine I know the next study would say that gua sha causes cellulite and matcha contains micro metals. In these algo reels, I’ve also noticed reading becoming more prevalent — whether it’s in wellness rituals or hot girl hacks. And I agree, reading is healthy, and being well read is sexy. But I have bumped into girls more than once now who are pushing their way through a crowded sidewalk with a copy of a Court of Thorns and Roses, The Shift, or The Bell Jar held to their eyes. And I wonder if they’re girls being targeted by the same reels. 

In the age of AirPods and audiobooks, you’d think we could at least listen to our fairy porn trilogies, or save our literature for when we’re seated on the subway. Which is why I also wonder if the novel is becoming as trendy an accessory as the Goyard. And if it is, it might be at risk of being cheapened, made in China and sold on the corners of Canal Street. It might be touted as a status symbol, with little regard for its interior stitching. 

To be clear, I think it’s a hopeful sign that the era of “booktok” has people reading more. But this is an argument about practicality. I told one friend about my observation, and she likened it to the pervasiveness of Stanley Cups and the silliness of lugging steel tumblers with straws through a crowded train station.

I hate that social media pressures us to adapt healthy rituals to the point that they become toxic. And I’d hate for the “Lit Girl” to become the social mandate, for our book clubs to be just another form of keeping up with the Joneses, from who wore what to who read what. 

But maybe they always have been. Maybe I should just focus on crossing the street safely so I can get to work—in sensible shoes.