Romanticizing My Life (One Wine Glass at a Time)

Now My Entire Existence Is a Low-Budget Period Drama

Someone told me I needed to romanticise my life more.

I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but they said it with the kind of confidence that made me think they’d figured something out that I hadn’t.

So I took them at their word.

Now I drink my water from a wine glass. It’s still just water, filtered, room temperature, occasionally with a bit of limescale.

But I have to admit, I feel a lot fancier.

And surprisingly more hydrated, probably because I’m now terrified of spilling it on the laptop, so I’m forced to sip with an intentionality I previously reserved for “is this milk still good?”

But when you start this kind of thing, it’s hard to know where to stop.

I no longer “go to the shop.”

I embark on a small expedition to procure provisions. My commute isn’t a tedious slog through traffic, it’s a daily pilgrimage through the urban landscape.

I don’t sit on the couch watching television. I retire to the reading salon for an evening of visual storytelling.

The couch hasn’t changed. It’s still got that one cushion that’s gone a bit flat. But now I feel it has gravitas.

My kitchen is now “the culinary quarter.”

Heating up leftover pasta I think of as “preparing a simple Tuscan-inspired supper.”

Eating cereal directly from the box at 9pm has been rebranded as “a late evening tasting menu.”

Staring into the open fridge for three full minutes, finding nothing, and closing it again is no longer ‘procrastinating, it’s ‘auditing the larder’s potential.’

My friend wanted to know what I was doing this weekend. I told him I’d be “curating a quiet domestic retreat with light administrative duties.”

After the obligatory eye roll and head shake he said, “So... laundry?”

I said, “Among other restorative practices, yes.”

It’s quite strange I genuinely feel different. Not more fulfilled in any measurable way.

But there’s a sort of theatrical dignity to it all now.

I’m not just existing, I’m performing existence. I’ve started to suspect my house spider is the real critic. He just sits there in the corner, judging me.

He’s genuinely unimpressed ( without evidence to the contrary, I’ll continue calling him…he!)

I’ve even started lighting a candle when I work from home. Not for ambiance. For atmosphere.

There’s a difference. Ambiance is passive. Atmosphere is a creative choice. I’m basically a set designer now, and my life is the stage.

Yesterday I told someone I was “taking a contemplative stroll” when really I was just walking to the corner shop because I’d run out of milk.

But you know what? The walk felt better. The milk tasted more significant.

I gazed at a tree for a moment and thought, Yes. This is living.

I’m sure she had something else in mind when she said to romanticise my life.

I suspect she meant something deeper.

Gratitude, mindfulness, finding beauty in the ordinary. But I’ve chosen to interpret it as “use fancier language and drink everything out of glassware you’d normally save for guests.”

So yes, I’ve gone all in on romanticising my life.

One overly elaborate description at a time.

My existence is now a low-budget period drama, and I’m both the lead actor and the only person in the audience.

The reviews are mixed. But the wine glass stays.