A Room of One's Own
Branching out. Plus, much love for my bro, a university's dance team finals, the straw wrapper worm, and more.
I did it again: I moved. I also cried—and way more than I expected!
To update those of you who are new here (also, hi! welcome!):
February 1, 2024: Moved from Paris back to New York after nine years of calling the city “home.”
February —> mid April: Stayed at friends’ place on the UES while they wintered in Florida.
April —> mid May: Did lots of dogsitting in Manhattan and Brooklyn, packing and unpacking on the reg with much of my “stuff” at my parents’ house on Long Island.
End of May —> this Wednesday, February 26, 2025: Lived with my brother on Long Island.
Neither of us anticipated that I’d stay that long, but we also didn’t expect the job market to be such shit as I sought out new full-time career opportunities following 12 years of freelancing. The last year has been an adjustment for us both, but I think (read: hope!) in a good way. I’m so grateful to have had the experience of living with my brother again.
Writing “again” feels funny because, while we grew up in the same household, the big age gap between us meant that we kind of missed the opportunity to truly get to know each other as humans with mature thoughts, feelings, and interests beyond, say, treasuring Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles or leading a cheerleading squad as captain. I left for college when he was still in elementary school and then pretty much moved into Manhattan straight after. There’s even a (friendly) family feud about who gets to lay claim to the upstairs bedroom. When our parents overhauled the level to construct an extra one, hence splitting apart my sister and me to give us all our own spaces, that’s where I went. But then shortly after I left for college, it became where he went, and so he often mumbles about having lived in it the longest, therefore making it “his room.” (He’s probably started doing the math while reading this!) To me, it’s mine cause I was there first. Tomato, tomahto.
The point is, we were kinda like two ships in the night growing up.
Of course, we’ve since done lots of traveling together—from Peru to France and beyond. But those were short, quick hits of discoveries; of the world at large, and a bit of each other as we grew into ourselves. So when I decided to move from Paris back to New York, and hold off on signing a lease (and handing over my life’s savings), to a new apartment in the Big Bad City, I chose (asked!) to stay with him. Also, his house is pretty spectacular in a modernized comfort, has-all-the-bells-and-whistles kinda way.
There were some challenges, as there are wont to be with siblings who are very “same same, but different,” not to mention almost a decade apart in age and have varied lived experiences and values. But time passes, and you remember only the good, the kind, the fun, the compatible, and the easy.
When he offered to not only help move all my belongings (save for what’s still in my parent’s attic and garage—sorry M&D!), not to mention set up my TV, hang some artwork, and supply my kitchen with a new set of gorgeous pots and pans, I felt so much gratitude, love, and, a bit of sadness. We both knew it was time, and the departure itself was inevitable, but that didn’t make it any easier to say goodbye even if we’d only be about 38 miles and an hour apart. Despite my nomadic nature, I’ve always struggled with homesickness, and each time I parted from my parents or my siblings over the years—be it for college or during spring break or after les vacances in August, which I often spent in the States—I’d get all weepy. So I guess these tears were par for the course.
When my brother drove away on Wednesday night, without discussing it, I’m pretty sure he and I both felt how rare it was to have had the opportunity to live like an adult with someone we also lived with as kids and to get to know, appreciate, admire, and respect (and, sure, maybe sometimes roll our eyes at) one other in the process. And while I fear writing about this now means I’m sealing that period into some sort of vault or capsule, never to be opened again, I know that if and when I needed or wanted to move back in, there’d be a room for me. Whether or not that room would technically be considered his or mine is debatable. What makes a room one’s “own” anyway?1 What—who—sleeps in it? And for a certain length of time? Who furnishes it? Pays the bills for the walls it sits within? Maybe it doesn’t matter. It exists, therefore it is. His, mine, yours, ours.
Thanks, Jar. I’ll never forget the past many months of you, me, and Indy girl at Blackheath/The Barn.
Annnnnd I’m crying again. Go love on your siblings or your chosen family this weekend, mes amies. xx — Sara
Clickable
What makes cashmere so great? | WaPO
On healthcare-supported pleasure in France. |
Tackling another adulting query. |
Are you on board with Mel Robbins’ “Let Them” theory? | The Guardian
To voice memo, or not to voice memo? | Time
What a perfect piece of writing by a “lizard freak.” | The NY Times
A LOT of words, some funny, about bespoke suits. | The Atlantic
Watchable
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Ugh, why do all the influencers “reviewing” restaurants on TikTok have this obnoxious vocal fry and sing-songy intonation? The founder of a very cool South Asian snack brand called Daadi hit the trend on the nose by mocking it. Whether or not he intended to create brand awareness by inserting himself into a very real (and very annoying) commonality in dining out on TikTok is another story. Either way, it’s freakin’ genius. Also, please for the love of God, stop sending me the ACTUAL videos of these idiots who usually know nothing about food unless you’re sending them ironically. Thanks.
Perhaps because I am a former cheerleader who one-time participated in competitions, and am a general lover of choreographed dance numbers to emotional musical numbers, the algorithm targeted me on TikTok, showing me the video for the University of Minnesota’s dance team final this year. And not just once, but several times and from every angle. Friends, it’s worth watching from all the angles. Beyond their incredibly synchronized moves, let’s also give it up for Kate Bush. If you know, you freakn’ know.
BONUS: Who remembers the 1988 movie that features this song in a major moment? This movie, starring Kevin Bacon, was a real Rom-Som, by which I mean romantic, but freakin’ somber AF.
Currently overthinking…
…where to put pillows and hang art and smartly purchase small bits and bobs like shower curtains and peg boards.
Souvenir: Straw Wrapper Worm
Speaking of siblings, since we grew up sans smartphones, making a worm out of paper straws and water was a thing we did to entertain ourselves when out to dinner. Of course, there’s now a YouTube tutorial explaining it. But I hope either I or one of my siblings or brother-in-law teaches it to Cal and Dolly before they see it online. That is, if they can still find straws with wrappers…
While we’re on the subject of slithering silliness, a friend of my brother’s made this very cool game called CineSnake, which is gonna be the new Wordle for film buffs, I just know it. You get three strikes to figure out a link between the first movie or actor and the last movie or actor. So fun! There’s a new one each day.
Makes a mental note to reread Virgina Wolf.
And now im crying!!!!!! 🤣💕 loved everything about this.
Now I am crying! So proud of you both! Love you!