By 6:23 AM, the day has already betrayed me. My hyper-sophisticated alarm—a mix of rainforest noises and barely imperceptible drum beats—has failed to match the volume of my upstairs neighbor’s peloton workout. Yes, it’s early, and yes, I’ve briefly considered the legality of carpet installation sabotage. But life in LA isn’t about perfection; it’s about improvisation. By 6:24 AM, I’ve thrown a pillow over my head and convinced myself that skipping yoga today is an act of self-care.
And that’s the setup to my day: a little entropy, just enough guilt, and a solid foundation of good intentions.
Morning: Coffee and Quiet (Actually, Hollywood Mayhem)
Mornings in Beverly Hills are supposed to be serene—the stuff of lifestyle editorials where people wear cashmere wraps and sip oat milk lattes while journaling. My mornings, however, hover somewhere between a Nora Ephron screenplay and a very expensive sitcom.
I shuffle into the kitchen, where my espresso machine glares at me with disdain. (Using the steam wand requires more brainpower than I have pre-caffeine.) So, I grab a chilled bottle of cold brew from the fridge instead. Efficiency? Yes. Glamorous? No. In Beverly Hills, home life is curated for visitors: marble countertops, strategically-placed citrus bowls, and espresso pods no one actually uses.
While my coffee works its magic, I scroll through email. There’s always one from my mother, filled with a modern mix of Jewish mother wisdom and acute nosiness.
- Subject line: “Shabbat Dinner Question.”
- Body: “Do you think we need two briskets this week, considering Aunt Ruth’s low-carb thing? Also, are you still seeing that guy from UCLA? You know, I liked your ex better.”
If “organized chaos” is a legitimate aesthetic (and I maintain that it is), Mom’s emails are my masterclass. By 8 AM, I’ve responded diplomatically, convincing her to add kugel instead of a second brisket. Managing mothers is an underrated skill, right up there with repairing Wi-Fi networks or pretending to like kombucha at LA parties.
Mid-Morning: Work (and a Detour into Barista Life)
At 9:30, I settle into writing—on the couch, because desks are for overachievers or people with great posture. Today’s assignment: relationship advice for This Publication. While friends assume writing about dating is like giving unsolicited advice with a paycheck, they don’t realize how much Googling I do first. What’s the modern consensus on texting back too quickly? Are green flags the new red flags?
The irony? My life is far from love guru-worthy. A few months ago, I dated a guy who texted in Comic Sans. Yes, that Comic Sans. Another once showed up to dinner with an itemized list of ways I could “streamline my day.” Spoiler: Suggesting time-blocking as a first-date opener does not lead to fireworks.
By 11 AM, I’ve hit my word goal and reward myself by walking to a nearby coffee shop. This isn’t a health choice; it’s a people-watching ritual. LA coffee shops are like romantic comedies come to life. You’ll overhear everything from first-date awkwardness (“No, really, I swear my ex would say I’m a great listener”) to excruciatingly confident pitches for vegan dog desserts. Bonus: The mere act of ordering coffee next to a minor celebrity makes your latte feel more important.
Lunchtime: Power Salads... and Grocery Store Gossip
The Hills have a reputation for salads that look more like art installations, and believe me, they’re not wrong. Today, it’s a citrus arugula masterpiece that costs more than my college textbooks did. But here’s the thing no one tells you: Salad splurges are kind of meditative. Somewhere between the candied pecans and the Dijon vinaigrette, even mundane thoughts feel divine.
Grocery shopping follows, proving my life isn’t all aspirational. Beverly Hills grocery stores are their own cultural phenomenon. You’ll spot couples arguing softly over balsamic varieties while models in athleisure sprint toward the last organic papaya. Over in Aisle 5, I bump into an old writing mentor from my UCLA days. He greets me with a classic, “Becca! Are they still teaching three-act structure, or have the kids replaced it with TikTok choreography?” It’s only once we’ve parted ways that I wonder—did I look good enough for a surprise reunion? (Spoiler: Probably not. My sunglasses were on crooked.)
Afternoon: The Beverly Bubble Pops
Ah, afternoons. The lull of productivity, punctuated only by calendar alerts and the occasional existential crisis disguised as a snack break. At 3 PM, I Facetime my younger cousin in New York, who, like many in the family, imagines my life is an endless cycle of premieres and red-carpet events. I don’t correct her; I just tilt the camera away from the Very Normal pile of laundry behind me.
LA can feel like a curated dreamscape at times. You’ll drive past streets lined with palm trees and vintage convertibles, but then reality sneaks in: a parking ticket on your windshield or a reminder that gas prices in your neighborhood are offensive. Romance is a lot like Beverly Hills, by the way—a beautiful package with quirks you learn to appreciate.
The real highlight comes at 4:30, when I do my daily power walk to a beloved neighborhood bookstore. There’s something grounding about aisle after aisle of stories, where romances can be perfect because they're fictional. I walk out with a new title by Jonathan Safran Foer, which feels both predictable and oddly comforting.
Early Evening: Shabbat Prep Chaos
On Friday evenings, my apartment morphs into a controlled whirlwind. I’ve promised to bring challah to tonight’s Shabbat dinner. In theory, it’s a simple task; in execution, it involves navigating a bakery with lines that resemble Coachella ticket queues. By now, my brain buzzes with family dynamics I’ll be walking into shortly: Grandpa and his eternal debate about movies versus streaming (Spielberg is a national treasure), little cousins trading TikTok dance moves, and my aunt’s signature unsolicited finance advice.
When I finally arrive at our family home—challah in hand—I’m greeted by noise, hugs, and that warm scent that only exists at Shabbat dinners. Mom asks why I’m not dating Nice Jewish Lawyer #6 from the community roster. Dad loudly quotes my latest This Publication article to the confusion and delight of the teens at the table. Amid the loving chaos, I’m reminded of why rituals matter. They’re not perfect, much like everything else in life and love, but they’re ours.
Nighttime: Unwinding with (Mostly) Good Intentions
Around 10 PM, I’m back home. The evening ends quietly, with tea I never finish and a book I half-read before scrolling Instagram. This, I tell myself, is self-care. But as I swap Instagram for TikTok, any semblance of productivity evaporates. I get sucked into videos of people making elaborate charcuterie boards (also known as “boards too beautiful to eat”) and Irish sheepdogs herding chickens.
Tomorrow will start with peloton-induced chaos again, but tonight, in the quiet moments, life feels simple. It’s the messy, lovely, hyper-specific mishmash of Beverly Hills traditions, bewitched coffee orders, sloppy texting habits, and family Shabbat dinners that make it all worthwhile.
Takeaway? A day doesn’t have to be profound—it just has to be authentically yours. Whether you’re juggling group texts about kugel or navigating relationship quirks (comic sans texters included), your routines tell a story. And hey, isn’t life really just about collecting great stories to tell over dinner?
