Three Little Events and the Art of Doing Things Alone

This little piggy went to a sound bath; this little piggy went to a listening session. Plus, Mumford & Sons and Jimmy Fallon, Signalgate, and Care Bears!

Mar 28, 2025

Last week, while still in my robe, drinking lukewarm coffee from the comfort of my new armchair, I spent $200. It wasn’t even 9 a.m.

Living in NYC is going exactly how I thought it’d go: expensively.

I’d purchased a ticket to an art-performance-meets-fine-dining social gathering being thrown by a somewhat exclusive new pop-up supper club. It claimed to be tax-deductible and is Judaism-related, so going would make my parents and grandmother proud, which is still a thing I justify to myself at 46. So I clicked purchase, the taste of that lukewarm coffee turning more bitter in my mouth with every sip.

What the hell am I doing? I don’t even spend that much on a theater or concert ticket. Now I’m going to some spendy Passover seder? And alone, no less?

That was kinda the point.

As much as sitting in my sublet, which I have lovingly adorned as if it’s home, at least makes me feel like I’m getting my money’s worth, it also feels kinda quiet sometimes. And while my lifelong friends from high school, college, and my early-aughts-NYC-vodka-soda era are all still here doing their thing, they are doing their thing. As they should be, especially at this point in their life. Sure, they’ll occasionally join me for dinner or theater, which will take ages to schedule, but mostly they send me Reels to cool galleries or viral smash burgers they won’t initiate organizing plans around. As the Still Single, Type A Virgo of the bunch, this often falls in my lap. Mostly, I don’t mind being That Friend: The One Who Pushes and Plans. It’s in my nature, and I don’t have to hire babysitters, organize carpools, or attend unnecessary Zoom calls with my boss. Plus, I admittedly also tend to be The One Who Has a Strong Opinion. But sometimes it can be exhausting and frustrating, and makes me melancholy.

And so I find myself in the center of the action here in New York Fucking City, contending with whether to continue pushing and planning and waiting, or just getting out there myself and doing what I want, when I want, albeit alone—just like I did when I first moved to Paris and had no choice. It’s hard because I kinda just want to hang out with the people I know and love when I’m not enjoying my own company, but also, had I not pushed myself to expand my circles and go it alone throughout my life, I wouldn’t know half of these wonderful humans.

Now, to be fair, not every event I’ve signed up to attend solo recently has set me back two Benjamins. In that same week, I went to three that allowed me to make peace with myself in a sea of strangers in different ways. First up…

The Free Breakfast

I registered for a (free) breakfast at the soft opening of a new “third space” community in DUMBO that’s a mix of WeWork and SoHo House. To start, we went around in a circle introducing ourselves, which took an inordinate amount of time thanks to the inevitable few people who like to hear themselves speak and be funny in the spotlight despite it not being the time nor the place. Then, we did a little arts exercise meant to spark conversation. The people at my table were lovely and interesting, but mostly I wanted to eat my yogurt bowl and skidaddle. Aside from it being a bit early to put on a face for both listening and sharing, I felt a smidgen of shame for likely being one of the only 40-somethings there still trying to make a go of it—“it” being a career, connections, success, etc. Cue “Once in a Lifetime” by the Talking Heads.

The Soundbath

Last Friday, I attended a yoga, meditation, and soundbath for the spring equinox at a lovely studio in my neighborhood. I paid $35 for this 60-minute class that also started with everyone sitting in a circle, introducing themselves, for which we were encouraged to do “snaps” after each introduction. This got repetitive and mostly felt silly and awkward. Maybe I’ve just done my share of yoga, meditation, and sound baths, so the novelty has worn off. Or maybe it was the snaps, making me feel like I was back in cheer camp. Whatever it was, I couldn’t seem to tune out the instructor who overused “y’all” and “hyper” as if she’d she’d just memorized a manual titled: “Yoga 101: How to Make Gen Zs Feel Relaxed and Renewed on Friday Night But Annoy the One Gen Xer Up Front.” Unlike the previous classes I’d taken at this studio, taught by the owner (a clearly seasoned practitioner), this one felt a little forced. No disrespect. To each their own and all that jazz. But not even gongs, glass bowls, and chimes could save me from wanting to “ease out of savasana” ASAP.

The Listening Session

I honestly had no idea what I was getting myself into for this particular $27 event at a multi-room music destination in Gowanus that’s half-inside, half-outside, part-rooftop, part-basement, a smidgen bar, and a smidgen restaurant. The confusion was confounded by the fact that I could go at either 3p.m. or 7p.m. After deciding I’d rather be home on the couch at 7p.m., I arrived (fashionably late at 3:30p.m.) to find the crowd sitting on mini beanbags or wooden benches, and standing in the back.

A great thing about going alone to something is that you can almost always find a good spot whenever you arrive. I beelined to the last beanbag right in the center of the floor between a bald dude and a girl not only sitting crosslegged in red pleather thigh-high boots, but a teensy-tiny top hat better suited for Willy Wonka. Still, I thought I’d scored with my placement until about 20 minutes in when the unforgiving jeans I’d worn began digging into my stomach so badly from sitting on the floor like a five-year-old in music class that I thought I might die. It didn’t help that I was high as fuck thanks to the edible I ate upon leaving the house. Actually, at first it did help, and sitting on the floor listening to trippy music amongst strangers felt pretty epic. Then the high wore off and I felt 46 going on 86. I needed to crack my back, turn my neck, and stretch my legs. Also, where does one look while just sitting on the floor listening to trippy music amongst strangers? After braving the entire hourlong session without glancing at my phone once, all of these thoughts at least gave me something to talk about with the people next to me who also now needed a bath with Epsom salts, as evidenced by their back-cracking twists and stretches.

Which of these three events—if any—best suited my solo pursuits? And how would they compare to the one I dropped some cold, hard cash on next month? It’s too soon to tell, but so far, the rest of my money is on the listening session. There were no forced social interactions, but rather a shared fondness for something specific—in this case, music from David Longstreth of the Dirty Projectors, who called the new album: “a mix between the ‘Wizard of Oz’ and ‘Dark Side of the Moon’.” (Editor’s note: That tracks.)

I have come to realize that I’m an introvert masquerading as an extrovert and need to be able to opt out—in situ—without explanation, guilt, or awkwardness. Also, I love a little performance! It doesn’t need to be dramatic, comedic, or even on a stage. A few weeks ago, I went to something called “Pages & Pours” hosted by a fellow Substacker in Brooklyn, where a few women read mini book reviews aloud before everyone swapped the books they came with. The initial monologues took the pressure off of us spectators/minglers/socializers, but also gave us something to talk about once the swapping began.

Funnily enough, a friend came with me to that $20 event, and I was torn between wanting to just sit with her at the bar and catch up and “putting myself out there” with some new people who might be available the next time she’s not.

And so here we are, back where I started.

The thing is, I love that I get to choose. Not that those in partnerships don’t, but there’s always a “let me check with [so-and-so] first” whether they say as much or not. I have no one to check with. No shared Google calendar. (Yay!) But I also don’t have a guaranteed plus-1 (nor other “pluses” such as “in sickness and in health,” etc.), hence forcing me to revisit my contacts list on the reg or head out in the world solo when I’m craving connection. (Ugh!) Still, none of this, as you may be wondering (or not if you read this), has made me more interested in intentionally1 seeking out my own guaranteed plus-1.

So! I will continue to both pursue plans with friends and show up to events alone—for free, a respectible amount, and possibly a pretty penny—knowing that doing so will never not be awkward or challenging despite my decades of experience. And I will remind myself of this: Whether it’s as grand as a solo trip or moving to a new country (or back to an old one), or as seemingly simple as attending a breakfast, a soundbath, or a listening session, there is an art to doing things alone and it can be gratifying if you follow your interests, listen to your gut, and manage your expectations. (No “shoulds” and “second guessing”— two things I’m forever working on.) Going to last week’s three little events reminded me that not only am I brave, but I’ll either leave with a new friend or a newfound appreciation for my solo status. And, as is often the case with me, maybe both—not to mention something to write about. :)

With that, thanks for coming to this week’s FREE virtual “event,” friends. xx— Sara

Clickable

The lunacy is a laughing matter. And yet. | The Atlantic
Dr. Carter is now Dr. Robbie, and I am here for it. | Vulture
Voting for “bullshit.” One woman’s story. | WaPo
Trios are rough. | The NY Times
“To the woman who walked beside me…” | Off Assignment
A hilarious attempt to out-Meghan, With Love, Meghan. | The Cut
Greenery replaced by gold: The case of the missing White House ivy. | WaPo
A tribute to a friend and fellow teen star. | Vulture
Why a longtime WaPo columnist gave her notice. | The New Yorker
I also enjoy doing the dishes. | Saveur

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Watchable

Whether he’s in on the joke or the butt of the joke, Jimmy Fallon always seems to handle himself with such a fun lightheartedness, which often illicits a good giggle. From me, anyway. When Marcus Mumford—whom I also love for his folky crooning—ribbed him for not properly introducing the band at the SNL50 show, Jimmy retaliated on his show by introducing them with the most long-winded, lengthy, and pedantic curtain-raiser ever. The whole thing was just silly and good old-fashioned fun between friends and millions of viewers.

This whole Signal Snafu (or “Signalgate” as some are calling it) is almost too fucked up to be true. And yet. It’s also too fucked up to be hilarious. And yet. I’m sorry-not-sorry, but anyone who thinks this isn’t a big fucking deal…how??? Why??? The hypocrisy alone! Anyway, all the takes have been juicy—and Threads has been a GOLD MINE for quips; my favorite being, “The theme song of America is literally the Curb Your Enthusiasm song”—but Stephen Colbert wins for best late night monologue on the same day The Atlantic released the entire chat online. The whole 10 minutes are worth a listen, but go straight to 6:18 for the bit that had me howling, and make sure to stay on until 7:27, too. You’ll get…wait for it… “sucked in.”

REMINDER! I Launched A New Substack

…for fellow Substackers. (Or, really, anyone seeking a clean bill of health for their writing.) If that’s you, or someone you know, please check out Word Doc.2

Currently Overthinking…

…hotel options and destinations for a 50th anniversary trip I’m helping my parents plan…dates for a housewarming…how many Girl Scout Samoa cookies are too many to eat in one sitting…

Souvenir: Care Bears

Cal, my nephew, is currently obsessed with Ninja Turtles, Ghostbusters, and Spider-Man—pop culture characters that are most definitely not new. This reminded me of the characters of my youth, which got me thinkin’ about Rainbow Brite, which got me thinkin’ about Strawberry Shortcake, which eventually led me to Care Bears. Proving their staying power, a few of my friends’ children are also into the colorful bears who “stare” out rainbows from their bellies. (Remember, “CARE BEARS: STARE”?!) I had Secret Bear, to whom I was prompted to tell my deepest, innermost thoughts thanks to a string in the bear’s back to pull for a voice-activated prompt. Then the string got stuck inside. But the bear itself is still up in the attic, presumably keeping my secrets to this very day. At least, the ones I haven’t yet shared here. :)