Josie Cox

Thursday

Josie Cox

The A-lister next door

For most of my life I’ve been chronically awkward around anyone who’s even remotely famous. I once effusively greeted former British chancellor of the exchequer George Osborne because I knew I recognized him from somewhere. I just assumed he was a friend of a friend. At a conference in Berlin circa 2010, I spilled coffee on the back of former German chancellor Gerhard Schröder’s suit. On another reporting assignment I tripped and lost a shoe while trailing the late Fiat Chrysler CEO, Sergio Marchionne. Stopping to retrieve it would have caused me to surrender my coveted spot in the press scrum, so I obtained my soundbite barefooted, triggering the notoriously grumpy Italian to crack a pitying smile.

famous neighbor celebrity

Monday

Josie Cox

Business schools are dating apps for the super-rich

“D’you know what the acronym MBA stands for?” The twenty-seven-year-old who asked me this had a deep tan and fluorescent teeth. He may have winked, but the eye-twitch was more likely a nervous tic developed from looking at himself in the mirror so much. I responded with a look of indifference mixed with fear. “Married” — he paused for dramatic effect and demonstratively looked at my wedding ring — “but available.” I felt nauseated. I was in my first semester of business school in New York City and had so far learned how to make an educated estimate of a company’s optimal capital structure, how to make a balance sheet look balanced and how to use the word “conceptually” to sound smart in strategy class.

business school

Wednesday

Josie Cox

The hyper-competitive world of New York parenting

From our UK edition

I stumbled upon it in one of the darkest corners of the internet: a Facebook parenting group. The mother’s intentions were pure, I tried to tell myself. But I couldn’t help feeling exasperated – and even a bit saddened – by her post: 'I’m desperately looking for a Rubik’s cube tutor for my son,' read the message. 'He’s four.' It was June 2020. The world was in the horrendous early throes of Covid-19. Governments were struggling to contain the virus. Researchers were working around the clock to churn out a vaccine. Millions had already lost their jobs and their health. Millions more would lose their lives in due course.

Thursday

Josie Cox

Members’ clubs are having a moment

One lunchtime in May, the sixth floor of a restored warehouse on Manhattan’s Ninth Avenue buzzed with the sound of lingering lunch dates, pandemic-postponed reunions and the erratic clatter of computer keyboards beneath the inspired fingertips of creatives and those moonlighting as such. Just beyond the reception desk a gaggle of bespectacled, chino-clad men congregated. In suede sneakers and made-to-look-worn corduroy jackets, they clutched Scandi-chic satchels and laptop bags, poised to pounce on the next available artfully upholstered chair. Even one of the sumptuous velvet sofas would do. Next door, in the dining area, waiters weaved in and among patrons like figure skaters, determined not to risk their precious tips by spilling a drop of Bloody Mary or chai latte.

clubs

Saturday

Josie Cox

Learning to speak American

Rarely has a question stopped me in my tracks quite so abruptly. It was a Wednesday at 8:30 a.m., and rushing to get to a meeting on time, I walk-jogged past my building’s extremely friendly Jamaican doorman. “Ohh-kay,” he greeted me characteristically with a curt nod and a little wave. “How are you?” I replied, not missing a beat. Then we both got on with our days. Except I didn’t. I’d barely stepped out into the crisp morning air when it hit me with the force of an Oxford English Dictionary tumbling from the window of the apartment above me: what had just happened?

Monday

Josie Cox

Joining the SoulCycle cult

"She’s in a cult,” my husband told our friends over dinner recently, eyebrows slightly arched, kind of — but not really — joking. I’m not, of course, but I’m oddly comfortable with the accusation. The day before, I’d done The Double. After dropping my daughter off at school and mumbling something about an urgent meeting to one of the mothers hoping for a chat, I caught the subway to the West Village and didn’t exhale until I stepped into the reception area, where the inoffensive grapefruit aroma of a $42 Jonathan Adler candle swaddled me like a mollified newborn. I was in.

cult