"So I asked if he’s like Daniel Day-Lewis in bed—now what?"

A survival guide for overthinkers who have said something weird (yet again).

Lincoln, dir. Steven Spielberg, 2012.

This whole essay began, like many of my spirals, with an innocent glass of white wine and a seemingly casual date with an actor in northeast London’s ‘triangle of scaries and hotties.’ One minute, we’re talking about life, work, the usual—next thing I know, like some slightly drunk Mad Lib come to life, I’m asking him some very, very strange questions relating to Stanislavski’s Method, Abe Lincoln, and sex.

This entire weekend, I couldn’t stop thinking about what I said—and what the actor thought of me after.

So, naturally, I did what any writer with a Substack does—I turned it into an essay about overthinking, awkward conversations, Jemima Kirke—and why I’ll probably never live that moment down.

HAHA THANKS FOR THE GLASS OF WINE—SO, AS AN ACTOR, DO YOU THINK DANIEL DAY-LEWIS STAYED IN CHARACTER AS ABE LINCOLN WHEN HE HAD SEX? AND—NOW THIS IS CRUCIAL—DO YOU GO METHOD WHEN YOU HAVE SEX, TOO?

Left: Actor Daniel Day-Lewis photographed out to lunch in LA while in ‘Lincoln mode’. Right: Daniel Day-Lewis, true king of Method acting and Carhartt, post-Lincoln mode.

I’ve been thinking about myself a lot lately. Like, a lot. (Don’t worry, you don’t have to feign surprise—I can’t see you through your phone screen.) It’s getting to the point where I wonder if it’s just part of being alive in your late twenties or if I’ve reached a level of self-obsession that even Narcissus would tell me to tone it down.

It’s the kind of self-obsession where you spend a perfectly good weekend overthinking a weird comment you made on a date on a Friday night, like, “Why did I ask him if he’s one of those actors who acts like Daniel Day-Lewis, staying in character every waking moment? And why did I need to know if that included when he has sex? Now he probably thinks I spend my nights thinking about Daniel Day-Lewis, that actor-turned-Irish farmer with a heart of gold, in bed—dressed as Abe Lincoln.”

You know, normal thoughts.

THANK YOU FOR READING MY OVERSHARES SUBSTACK—DON’T FORGET TO LIKE, COMMENT, AND SUBSCRIBE

I always write these essays in a feather Valentino cape.

I blame the whole ‘I’m a writer with a Substack’ thing—especially now that I’m not only writing articles with 43 charming kid’s bedroom ideas for children’s rooms of any size for House & Garden anymore (though love them I do). These days, I write essays about my existential crises, bouts of food poisoning, and how my sex life is sometimes akin to a poorly-constructed IKEA Mälm bedframe, too.

Honestly, being a writer feels like I’ve signed up for a lifetime of talking about myself to anyone who will listen, and because of that, I spend way too much time thinking about how I’m coming across, whether I’m oversharing, or if people actually think I’m insightful or just rambling into the digital void.

(I mean, maybe it’s both? It could very well be both.)

I AM ONE “KIND REGARDS,” AWAY FROM BEING UNIVERSALLY LOATHED

When I lived in Paris, I used to give Emily in Paris-themed food tours.

With all this constant thinking about myself, I’ve entered a special kind of spiral. You know, the one where every random thing you’ve ever said or done resurfaces in your brain like it’s been waiting for the perfect moment to wreck your day.

Did my friend take offence when my voice went all high-pitched as I said “Ohhhh, he looks like he’d really make you laugh” after she showed me a photo of her crush¹? Oh shit, I sometimes panic, are the men who I’m writing about reading my essays and, oh God, was I too vulnerable in my last post?²

Before you know it, I’m replaying interactions in my head like they’re cringe scenes from Emily in Paris, complete with unnecessary commentary from my inner critic. By the time I’m done overthinking, I’m convinced that I’m one awkward moment away from being universally loathed³.

And it’s not just the higher-stakes moments. Honestly, sometimes it’s the random, everyday stuff that really gets me spiralling. Like, should I have waved to that person across the street? Is “Best” a passive-aggressive email sign-off, or should I have said “Kind regards” instead? And does the Columbia Road Neighbour’s Association now think I’m the local lunatic after my earnest ‘Can we petition for a resident-only sidewalk to avoid the slow-walking, flower-buying tourists who never can seem to get out of my way?’ ask fell flat?

(I’m also wondering as I write this piece from my bedroom if the reader (that’s you) is judging me for watching (and absolutely loving, by the way) Emily in Paris?)

With this brouhaha of worry, it’s like I’ve been sucked into a walled off chamber of self-reflection. But instead of pondering valuable life lessons, it’s just me, obsessing over my email sign-off and the men reading my essays.

JEMIMA KIRKE TOLD ME TO GET THE FUCK OVER MYSELF

The Jemima Kirke AMA in question.

Let’s back it up for a second. This was the lovely little existential mess I had found myself in yet again a few months ago whilst I found myself tap-tap-tapping my way through Instagram for comfort and—let’s be honest, a little schadenfreude.

After enough Stories of friends’ artistically-presented oyster platters and friends of friends’ engagement announcements (followed by in-depth analysis of the rings), I found myself making my way through Jemima Kirke’s Stories. Someone asked her what advice she had for young women who lacked confidence, and in classic Jemima fashion, she hit back with: “I think you guys might be thinking about yourselves too much.”

That was it. No fluff, no hand-holding. Just the cold, hard truth.

I screenshot it at the time, of course, because it felt like a personal attack wrapped in wisdom. But I didn’t really think about it much afterwards—too busy overanalysing my life to take on any more self-awareness.

Flash forward to this past Saturday, when Tim Cook and/or Mark Zuckerberg my phone, creepily aware of my mental state (and my crippling three-glasses-of-white-wine-and-a-frozen-margarita-post-date-with-an-actor hangover), decided to ‘helpfully’ display the screenshot as a ‘Memory’, the passive aggressive algorithmic equivalent of a drive-by shooting⁴. It was as if Jemima herself was staring at me, judging me for my puffy skin and my post-date downward-facing spiral, and offering a swift, verbal slap. The message couldn’t have been clearer: I needed to get over myself.

And honestly? I deserved it.

Because Jemima was onto something. I’ve been so busy worrying about myself—whether I’m oversharing, under-sharing, or just a total weirdo in social situations—that I’d convinced myself the world was sitting around thinking about me, when really? No one cares that much. Everyone else is too busy worrying about their own stuff. It’s like we’re all the main characters in our own personal HBO Max shows⁵, except no one’s watching yours because they’re too busy starring in their own.

REACHING ENLIGHTENMENT EN ROUTE TO THE INTERMARCHÉ

Me, pre-wisdom, at the Intermarché.

This whole ‘no one’s watching’ realisation reminded me of a conversation I had this summer while driving through the Loire Valley with a few friends, heading to the Intermarché. We were in this beat-up rental Peugeot, speeding past castles and vineyards, and somehow we got into this very existential conversation about knowing what people truly think of you. Classic road trip talk, right?

Because I’m me, I decided to get deep and ask, “If there was a book that had every single thought people have ever had about you, would you read it?”

Most people immediately said no. Too terrifying. The idea of knowing what people really think about you? Horrifying.

But then there was Pat. Good ol’ Pat, who without hesitation said, “Yeah, I’d read it.”

Obviously, I had to ask him why, because clearly, this man was a masochist. But his answer surprised me: “Because people like you more than you think they do. Most people honestly only have time to think nice things about you and don’t spend time thinking about anything else.”

Cue my jaw hitting the floor. Who knew road trip wisdom came free with a rental Peugeot?

Pat wasn’t a masochist; he was enlightened. Here I was, spiralling over every tiny thing I might’ve said or done wrong, where Pat, fully unbothered, was convinced that people mostly think nice things. He believed that people, for the most part, don’t spend their time nitpicking every little thing about you and when they do think about you, it’s often positive. Absolute optimist insanity.

The more I thought about it, though, the more I realised he was kind of right. People are generally too wrapped up in their own lives to be micro-analysing mine. No one’s keeping a mental record of my every awkward comment or weird wave goodbye. They’re busy overthinking their own lives.

Pat’s little nugget of wisdom was basically the real-world version of Jemima’s advice—people just don’t care as much as you think they do. They’re not sitting around waiting to pounce on your every awkward interaction because, spoiler alert, they’re too busy worrying about their own awkward interactions.

It’s not that people are self-centred in a bad way; it’s just that we’re all dealing with our own spirals. So maybe that weird wave didn’t even register in anyone else’s mind because they were too busy wondering if they’d turned off their curling iron or locked their front door.

NOTHING IS EVER REALLY THAT EMBARRASSING SO I’M GOING TO EMBRACE THE EYE TWITCHES AND THE HAHAHs AND BEING THOUGHT OF AS A FREAKY PERVERT WHO KNOWS WHAT STANISLAVSKI’S SYSTEM IS

May or may not have a kink for this guy and his methodical ways—but I won’t overthink it from here on out.

Insecurity, when you think about it, is just another way of putting yourself at the centre of everyone else’s story. Like, sure, it feels like self-loathing, but it’s also a little self-absorbed. When I’m thinking everyone’s dissecting my texts (‘I sent hahah instead of haha—do they now think I’m some try-hard freak who’ll laugh at anything they say?’) and analysing my facial expressions (‘Shit, I just felt my eye twitch and they totally just saw it. What if they think I now have a weird tic?’) when in reality, they’re all too busy spiralling over their own stuff. We’re all just trying to get through the day without embarrassing ourselves too much, so really, no one’s keeping score. Except maybe me, and I’m giving myself way too much credit if I think anyone else is.

Jemima’s advice felt like a lightbulb moment in that way. It’s not that I should never think about myself (I mean, I do have a Substack—like I’ve said, it’s practically in the self-made job description to talk about myself nonstop), but maybe I don’t need to spend every waking moment obsessing over my life’s blooper reel. Maybe people aren’t keeping track of my every misstep. And even if they are, they’ve probably forgotten about it faster than I did. And that’s the thing, isn’t it? We remember every little thing we do that feels off, but everyone else is too busy to care or remember.

So yeah, Jemima’s right. I have been thinking about myself too much. But thanks to her—and Pat—maybe I can let go of some of that. Maybe I can stop spiralling over every weird thing I’ve ever said and start remembering that people are generally more generous with their thoughts than I give them credit.

Maybe that actor now thinks I’m a freaky pervert with a Stanislavski kink (but I have a feeling he kinda likes that about me), or worse, he believes I spend my nights imagining Daniel Day-Lewis running emotional exercises mid-sex as Abe Lincoln.

But you know what? It doesn’t really matter, because we’re going out again anyway⁶ despite my word vomit spinout last Friday—and, frankly, it’s time to stop the constant self-commentary and just, you know, exist.

1. We all know that beauty is subjective and ‘in the eye of the beholder’ blah, blah, blah. My crush to me? Ridiculously good looking. My crush to you? Maybe just a guy who could really make you laugh, but I like that about him.

2. Vulnerable, maybe. But TMI? For sure.

3. Am I being dramatic? Absolutely. Am I also being accurate? Probably not, but here we are.

4. Also, Tim, Mark—can we please have a feature in the next update which weeds out the photos of your exes in your ‘Memory’ reminders? Or are you just sadists who enjoy ruining my Mondays?

5. Or, maybe more accurately, our own Tubi shows, ‘cause no one—literally no one—is watching those.

6. See you next week—unless you’re reading this and thinking, ‘I let the Lincoln sex thing slide, but I can’t with whatever this is,’ which, fair enough. Lemme know!