Grateful for Choice
On Thanksgivings alone and not, plus Big Mouth Billy Bass!
Following last week’s 8-year Paris-iversary, I was reminded of my first Thanksgiving here—only six days after I’d moved—when I feasted alone at an empty restaurant, save for the chef’s Golden Retriever as my dining companion; sniffing around for scraps as I spread foie gras on toast and sipped some beaujolais nouveau.
Soup was served in a mini gourd. The walls of the restaurant were teal green. I wore a dress I no longer own, but wish I did. And I did not feel alone—or even sorry for myself. I was in a new city, finding my way. So what if the holiday is generally spent with loved ones? I loved me! And I loved Paris! This is where I was then. All good.
I haven’t been “alone” for Thanksgiving since that day eight years ago, and despite my fond memories of that afternoon, for this I am grateful. But I think it’s also why I got myself into a pickle last night.
In the following years after that first feast with the dog, I either went to newfound friends’ houses where I brought a Brussels Sprout gratin or a carrot kugel that’s not really a kugel but whose secret ingredient is baby food; a fancy-shmancy meal for journalists hosted at one of the city’s fancy-shmancy hotels; or flown back to the States to be with family. All of these experiences felt appropriate. Filling. Heartwarming. Easy.
Which is why I think I pushed myself to walk into a party full of strangers last night—even after I’d spent the afternoon with some of my dearest friends, eating all the classic dishes on a sequined table, and drinking more booze than I’d had in weeks. I was sated in the best possible way, and yet I still crossed the river to attend another celebration. It was like I needed to prove to myself that I can still endure hard things; I can push through awkwardness—even if I didn’t have to or want to anymore. Perhaps in doing so I’d manifest another miraculous dinner companion… (But, you know, with less fur and smaller ears.)
The thing is, eight years ago I had no choice but to spend that Thanksgiving alone. I didn’t have any invites. No friends yet to share corn bread with. Sure, I could’ve stayed back in New York another week. But I had my reasons for leaving when I did, and so I made the most of the day alone—thanks, in part, to an unexpected four-legged friend. And I’ll treasure the memory toujours.
Eight years later, my options were more plentiful:
Where to go, and with whom?
Cook or go out?
Lunch or dinner?
Intimate get-together or big blowout party?
How fortunate I was! And so I decided on both—a daytime and an evening outing—because I was meant to go to the latter with a friend who wouldn’t be at lunch, and she always comes away with stories from this annual shindig. Then, she got sick and I was left with the choice to show up solo or bail. I chose the former because of all the aforementioned reasons. Then I proceeded to resist every minute of my decision. The truth was, I didn’t really want to go alone. Been there, done that. Plus, I was tired, still full from lunch, and had big time social anxiety. In fact, on the second of the two trains I took over there, I even considered turning around and going home; donating the two dishes I made (the Brussels sprouts and the kugel!) to a homeless person.
But that nagging voice in the back of my head (plus my sick friend who’s the most socialble person and best flirt I know) said: Go, Sara. You can do it! You HAVE done it. Also: You never know who you’ll meet.
Blech. Eyeroll. Mouth vomit.
The thing is, I did know: No one. Because my head and heart were not really in it.
And so I spent more time getting dressed for the party than being at the party itself. Once there, I felt more alone in a room full of (very nice!) people than I had that day eight years ago with no one but the dog to keep me company—and certainly more alone than being the only one at a table of my best friends without a partner to go home to.
But no harm no foul. Not only were some of those strangers very thankful to have another two dishes at the potluck, I was reminded that I *can* walk into a room alone and make small talk. I just don’t have to anymore. Better yet, I don’t always want to. And that’s OK. Choice. It’s a priviledged thing to have. And I am grateful for it.
Speaking of, I want to say a grand merci to all of you for subscribing and supporting my work over the years. Knowing there are several hundred of you on the other end of the Interweb who receive this on the reg, and count on reading what I’ve got to say and share, is humbling and a real boon to the spirit. It’s an odd thing to create something somewhat blindly and hope people out there—from family and friends to neighbors and random acquaintances—would find it valuable enough to give it their attention in the era of Distraction and Overstimulation. And yet, you do. At least, about 65% of you on any given week! So thank you, truly. You’re the Golden Retrievers to my solo dinners. Bon week-end, friends. xx — Sara
Clickable
“The tunic comes for all.” | McSweeney’s
is writing in lowercase the cure for overthinking? | Ungated
Nothing going on with you eihter? | The New Yorker
What’s your manifesto? | Creative Mornings
How much would you pay for Joan Didion’s things? | The NY Times
“The Terminal Man” has passed away. | The Guardian
Lourdes Leon is SO the Material Girl’s daughter. | The Cut
A village in France is doing wonders for those with Dementia. | The New Yorker
Beyond the obvious travel experiences, unranked by “experts.” | T Mag
Watchable
It’s hard to tell if “80 for Brady,” starring four elder Oscar winners (including my forever fave, Sally Field) is going to be super sweet or a complete bomb. We may very well have been shown all we need to see in the 2.5-minute trailer. But while I’m not much of a football fan (the American kind), I can see the appeal of a film that uses the macho game to somehow showcase female friendship, in which case two tickets to this showdown, s’il vous plait! (By which I mean, can’t wait to see it on an airplane.)
Remember in the last letter when I included an interview with Almost Famous writer/director Cameron Crowe and questioned whether the film (my favorite) would translate to the stage? Well, this clip from Jimmy Fallon, in which the cast performs one of the most iconic scenes, has confirmed that it will! I can not WAIT to see it!
Currently Overthinking…
…slipper colors…day rates vs. hourly rates…to go or not to go to the party…
Souvenir: Big Mouth Billy Bass
I forgot about this ridiculous gaff gift that was popular circa 1999 and was reminded of its silliness thanks to an episode in this season’s The Crown. Prince Andrew gifts one to the Queen, which itself is a hilarious thought! Did you have or give one?
Don’t forget: Sponsoring a souvenir is a paid subscriber's perk.