Going Soft: Why Life in the Slow Lane is Delicious

Wherein our author trades her mid-century modern aesthetic for something way more comfy.

(Photo: Stocksy)

Who remembers the Diane Keaton movie, Baby Boom?

It’s 1987. Diane’s character, J.C. Wiatt, is a Big Bad Career Lady in the go-go-go ‘80s. Shoulder-padded blazer, puffy, white sneakers for the commute to work, boardroom pumps, maybe even a string tie (although I’m hoping that’s just a figment of my imagination since no one looks good in those). J.C. finds herself suddenly saddled with a deceased relative’s baby and is instantly teleported to motherhood drudgery, which prompts her to give up her fast-track career (and a very on-trend apartment) for the cozy confines of a Vermont farmhouse. 

Subsequent hijinks ensue. 

I won’t ruin the whole storyline for you if you haven’t seen the flick (but here comes a 36-year spoiler alert) there’s one scene which I’ve ruminated on over the years: J.C. pushing a baby stroller in a sea of Manhattan working stiffs, all of them hurried and pounding the pavement on their way to work. She makes eye contact with a woman who clearly reminds J.C. of her own Boss Lady self, and what does she do? She picks up her pace, bulky stroller be damned, trying her hardest to keep up with this doppelgänger who is no doubt hustling, briefcase a-swingin,’ towards the office or a killer-diller breakfast meeting. The competition is all for naught, as J.C. quickly realizes she’s out of the game. She’s no Mistress of the Universe. She is now, in fact, the opposite of a mover and a shaker, just some woman with a cranky toddler and bag of goldfish crackers. As the scene ends, J.C. stands on the sidewalk, forlorn, watching her former self disappear into the crowd.

What about this scene rings true for me? When I think back to my own days in New York City, and the goals and dreams to which I held fast and tough, I realize that my ambition has left the building. Or rather, my ambition has decamped, not to Vermont but to upstate New York: the Catskills, baby, going on 20 years.

Now, that’s not to say I’ve given up. Hardly. But, my priorities, my standards, have, in a word, downshifted. 

Specifically, I’ve gone soft. 

Lemme tell you a little bit about the person I was. I arrived in NYC after graduating from journalism school and quickly started writing for various magazines. Who remembers magazines?! I worked three jobs in order to afford my $875 rent for a one-bedroom apartment (do we need to observe a moment of silence on this one?) and when I began dating my darling now-ex-husband, we collectively started living large. It was precisely where I had imagined myself to be. The hand-me-down furniture and Canal Street halogen lamps gave way to the spoils of upwardly mobile life. I was able to start indulging in what has been a lifelong passion of mine: interior design and home decor. 

It was no coincidence that the magazines I longed to write for the most were those covering interior design and home fashion. I loved art and gobbled up museum exhibitions; I loved the history of home design trends – not being trendy, YUCK, but from where did these trends emerge? 

I loved order and living graciously and when there HAD to be a pile of mail or a mound of laundry, I loved arranging my home so that these things were in harmony with the other beautiful objects that I collected. I think I drove my ex-husband crazy when I spent months looking at mid-century modern catch-all baskets that we could use in lieu of a toy chest for our young son. A plastic bin was never happening. We moved from a small loft to a larger loft and my decorating and design itch got scratched. Our homes were photographed for some of the same magazines that I admired the most. 

In those years, I was a strict design maven who was on a first-name basis with all the mid-century designers of note. Let’s face it: I was a hard-core design snob, and that was an easy place to be because my mate was one as well. When we acquired our vacation home in Woodstock, NY in the early aughts, we took that urban, “designed distinctly out of reach for many” aesthetic and purchased a very large mid-century modern home, amassing more period-specific treasures. 

Jump ahead a few years down the road. My marriage was over, and it was amicable enough that my ex-husband gave me the all-clear to move to Woodstock full time with our son. We’re ensconced in my beautiful home; my new partner moves in, and life goes on in a reasonably similar fashion, until it doesn’t. Ten years later, my second marriage ended (not so amicably) and a few years following that, now an empty-nester, I decided to downsize and move…to a 1920s Arts & Crafts Cape. 

So long, mid-century modern soaring ceilings, hello nooks and crannies.

Here’s where it gets interesting.  I love it. More than I’ve loved anywhere I’ve lived. It’s Lady Cottage Central Casting Perfection. 

Besides giving up “the big house,” I’ve tossed a few other long-held lofty status symbols (and ideals) out the window, and life in the slow lane has been one deliciously downward spiral after another.

More incredulous than being struck by lightning, my taste has completely morphed, from modern to…mushy. Because I finally had an easy-living epiphany and it’s this: You know what’s comfortable for snuggly Sundays in front of the fireplace? Not tightly-upholstered Florence Knoll sofas. No, when I want to relax, I want to burrow deep down, not in a Bertoia chair but rather in a well-worn leather club chair, a quilt thrown over my knees. My “Little Blue House That Could,” as it’s come to be called, has actual rooms (ROOMS!), with lowish ceilings, decorative trim over the doorways and a peeling-paint front porch, on which I love to luxuriate in my Early American rocking chairs, listening to the crickets, the birds, the silence.

To anyone who crosses my threshold, it is obvious that the woman who owns this place does whatever she damn pleases with regard to the décor, which is happily mismatched maximalism gone wild, piled on textured textiles, and more art than there are walls. My motto: What feels good, by default, looks good. I’ve never been so happy as I am when I’m wandering from room to room, drinking it all in, my little Queendom.

Besides giving up “the big house,” I’ve tossed a few other long-held lofty status symbols (and ideals) out the window, and life in the slow lane has been one deliciously downward spiral after another. For the first few years here in the early aughts, I held fast to closets full of city garb, until I realized that someone else could, and should, wear those leather pants, those 3 ½ inch heels, that cocktail dress dripping in bugle beads. Sure, I’ve kept some of my favorite urban pieces and I still own enough heels and handbags to stock a snooty reboot of Barneys (if that day ever arrives), but nine times out of ten, I’m debuting a new pair of Birkenstocks with very worn-in jeans. If it’s not a black t-shirt, it’s one of my many threadbare Indian kurtas or kaftans from an enormous collection that I started amassing in the ‘90s — you know, before they were chic, when it was all about the distinct comfort of the lack of a waistband.

You know what else screams DEFEAT in the best possible way? 9:30 pm. It’s the new midnight. Most nights of the week, you’ll find me in bed at an alarmingly early hour, with the dog, a few cookbooks or food magazines, a novel or two that I page through for all of 20 minutes before I start dozing off, and maybe a knitting project. Likewise, you know what’s better than a steaming cup of coffee in hand, watching the sunrise over the mountains in silence just after daybreak? Not much. A quiet morning here before the emails start flying is not only my top priority, but my sanity.

I sort of laugh at how today’s Mountain Chic phenomenon shows no sign of stopping. The irony of it all! I live in a place that is considered “red hot” by all reports! When I first moved to the country, friends were slightly concerned about me. This was before all the ironic Wellie boots, Teslas, and oat milk made their upstate debut. Back then, to move upstate meant you were almost “giving up.” Maybe that’s true. I’ve gone to the grocery store in pajamas more times than I can count and the idea of jockeying for a prime-time seat at a hot new restaurant (by setting alarms to remind me to log on to Resy) makes me cringe. Do I think I’m smarter than anyone else? Hardly. Probably just lazier. Totally fine with me. Leave me in the dust. I’ve discovered it’s my Happy Place.  

We're honored to have Abbe join us at TueNight's Birthday Bash, where she took the stage to share her incredible story.

ICYMI: Watch TueNight’s Birthday Bash in full, here — we’re also sharing a few of our fave photos taken at our event, here.