I wake up, and within the first few hours, I switch my phone to “90s rom-com lead” mode. No notifications or push alerts. No texts. Just calls from a limited selection of people I know.
This has been my life for about six months now.
I learned about rom-com mode—a customized Do Not Disturb setting—from a post making the rounds on social media last summer. The goal of the DND was to romanticize using your phone less. What’s more romantic than a Nora Ephron lead (me) with a certified landline (my notificationless iPhone)?
I hope it’s obvious that this started as a bit. It was fun and cute—the way I feel when I use clear glitter nail polish instead of the plain stuff. But I wasn’t taking it seriously until rom-com mode quietly stuck.
Begin montage.
One month in: I was a total method actor, embracing all the whimsy. Soft lighting around the house, tea before bed. Considering a transatlantic home exchange (this is both a joke and also not). I made a playlist, which you’ll never see.
Two months in: I scrolled Instagram less, but Pinterest more because I thought, Rom-com leads have pretty, cozy houses and that frazzled English woman aesthetic. I should find inspiration. Over evening tea, my visiting family asked if they could turn the overhead lights on.
Three months in: Notifications began to stack up on various social media platforms. I started reading more newsletters in the morning to catch up on the important things and thoughts I was missing. A friend called instead of texted because, “I thought you might be on rom-com mode.” A pretty laundry basket was attained, and curtains hung. Lights low, kettle on.
Four months in: I got really consistent with the dishwasher—it’s very rom-com to have a nightly sink-clearing ritual, I find. To wipe down the kitchen with Robyn blasting. I started sewing while listening to audiobooks, called friends more often, and took more walks in the woods. If you’re keeping track, the habit stack now includes: tea, lighting, curated news intake, and tiny chores around the house.
Five months in: I started using rom-com mode during my runs, because I wouldn’t have heard text notifications in the 90s. I felt like writing more in the evening, which I haven’t enjoyed in years. I rearranged my room and began clearing out some mystery closets. I was still on social, but it sounded more like a hmmm than an air horn. While on DND, I missed some lengthy group chats, but I enjoyed catching up when I had time.
Six months in: I planned an entire solo artsy weekend for myself. So rom-com. Someone reached out to see if I’d help with a volunteer event, and I thought, Probably, but I have some things I want to put on the calendar first. I rearranged my room and confirmed summer travel plans with a friend. I strongly considered overalls. I fixed my vacuum without the help of the internet, which was oddly empowering. I felt like leading less, in a good way. People can find me. I ran out of tea.
It’s funny now to write out these little recaps. They seem so ordinary—just vignettes of my very regular life. Still, in cosplaying landline ownership, I ended up learning a lot about what it means to be wholly present.
I always thought that people break up with their cell phones or social media for fairly big reasons: their mental health, their marriages, the dawning realization that it’s almost impossible to enjoy a concert you’re recording.
But presence ended up being less about red flags and more about a slow, understimulating return to myself. And then inviting people to meet me where I am. Which they did. Often.
I find that to be very moving, and that it happened through play, deeply compelling. It was so, so easy to make being offline fun.
Which brings us to my favorite thing about rom-com mode: the number of times I asked myself, How can I make this rom-com feel even more like me?
A-camera rolling, center of shot, soft lighting, and evening tea. Phone out of frame.
In this scene, I’m just living. It’s not a bit anymore. I’m existing in a way that’s comfortably attuned to who I am.
I take that seriously.
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