Thereโs a Molang pop-up in Paris right now. Itโs full of plushies, ephemera, and an adult-sized ball pitโhonestly, if I were anywhere near it, Iโd probably burst into tears. Molang, the round, radiant character born of Korean and French roots, has quietly become my emotional support marshmallow. No gender, no nationality, no ageโMolang just exists: squishy, sweet, and emotionally fluent in vibes.
I first discovered Molang several months ago. I had just finished Acorda, Carlo! (a Brazilian cartoon) after asking ChatGPT to recommend another brightly colored show that wasnโt in English. What I got was something so much better: five-minute episodes with no plot, no dialogue, and no chaosโjust a blob-shaped bunny rabbit and their anxious little chick friend, Piu Piu, living their best pastel lives.
They bake cakes. They ride in a tiny motorcycle with an even tinier sidecar. They go to space. They never fight. They never explain themselves. They justโฆ exist. Itโs like ASMR, therapy, and a weighted blanket all rolled into one.
I love that I canโt understand a word Molang says. Technically, they speak Molangueseโa delightfully expressive language that Iโm proud to say I can almost comprehend at this point, after several viewings. Alongside singsong exclamations like โBaaaah!โ, there are actual words: specti (look), rabono (good), norabono (bad), and Boomboom Shoobidoowa, which apparently means โdisco house party.โ Whether the gibberish makes sense to you or not, the meaning always comes through. Itโs part of what makes the show so calming: no exposition, no moral, just candy-colored cartoon adventures.
Molang and Piu Piu: two adorable blobsMolang, Piu Piu, and the pincos (friends)Yes, this is Boomboom Shoobidoowa energyImage via Molang YouTuber
Molang even has an active YouTube channel, Molang YouTuber, where they and Piu Piu sometimes speak English. But I prefer the originals. The lack of real words makes the show feel like ambient softness, something I can dip in and out of while I write, scroll, or spiral. When Netflix has the audacity to ask if Iโm still watching, the answer is always yes.
Iโve watched Molang many times over the past few months, and Iโm still not entirely sure who the intended audience is. Itโs ostensibly designed for preschool-aged children, but Iโm convinced it was made for people like me: overstimulated adults with too many tabs open and a deep need for softness. Molang is chubby, cheerful, and occasionally chaotic. Piu Piu is neurotic and frequently the voice of reason. Together, they bake, drive, picnic, DJ, ride hot air balloons, and occasionally travel back in time. Every episode is a microcosm of joy and curiosity. Their lives may be quiet, but theyโre full.
Molang doesnโt ask me to keep up. Molang just shows upโbright, unbothered, and squeezable. And somehow, that feels like enough. In a world that demands productivity, commentary, and constant opinions, itโs radical to watch something where the biggest drama is running out of strawberries or finding the perfect outfit for a picnic. All I know is that when the world feels jagged, I turn to Molang. And Molang always shows upโjust in time.
Not long ago, at 7:00 AM on a Saturday, I woke up to a text that simply read: I was arrested.
No context. No apology. No โgood morning.โ Just another man in my life sending me his chaos like it belonged on my breakfast plate.
This wasnโt the first time. Or the second.
Last year, Miles spent months going back and forth to court in Missouri for hearings related to an order of protection against his ex, who had repeatedly threatened his life. Heโs also been dodging calls from police in his hometown in Passaic County, New Jersey. They supposedly want to โask a few questionsโ about a harassment case involving yet another man. To be fair, that one did sound like bullshitโif his version was to be believed. But still. The pattern is the pattern.
This time, the charge was public drunkenness. Miles was arrested at a street festival, thrown in solitary โto dry out,โ and later hired a lawyer for $3,000 to try to make the charge go away. When I told him that was a privilege, he deflected. Rolled right past it. Just like always.
Miles has been seeing a guy named Deanโa former meth addict in his fifties. Theyโve known each other maybe two months. Somehow, Miles says the arrestโand the relapse that followedโhave made him feel better about this relationship.
Dean relapsed after Miles enabled his drinking, and then Dean ended up smoking crystal meth for two days. Milesโ justification? โEveryone fucks upโ and โat least he didnโt have sex with anyone.โ I told him to get everything in writing if he was serious about giving this guy another chance. He wonโt. Of course he wonโt. But he says heโs crazy about him. Says theyโve talked boundaries. Says theyโre going to get married. Maybe raise children.
And donโt worry, he saysโif Dean ever does this again, heโll leave. Sure.
Dean, according to Miles, โis not white trash.โ Whatever that means.
Itโs also worth noting: Miles is a borderline alcoholic. Thereโs no denying it anymore. And not in the fun, tipsy-on-the-weekend way (or at least, not anymore). In the blurry nights, bad decisions, and waking up with handcuffs way. Nowadays heโs the kind of man who makes you wonder not if something bad will happenโbut when. And this morning, it was at 6:41 AM Eastern / 5:41 AM Central. My guess? He spent the night in jail and texted me the moment he got out. Like Iโm supposed to be shocked. Like Iโm supposed to be relieved.
Meanwhile, Iโm the one who redid his entire LinkedIn profile that he has yet to even glance at (โIโm not worried. I trust you!โ). Iโm the one who tried to support him when he was spiraling. I even gave him a copy of Salt Kiss for Christmasโa dark romance with teeth, full of people making terrible decisions in beautiful, cinematic ways. I thought heโd like it. I thought he might even see himself in it. But heโs never opened the book. Just like heโs never once read anything Iโve written, liked a post Iโve shared, or shown the bare minimum interest in what I do.
He thinks heโll move to Dallas-Fort Worth to live with Dean and just land some great job in โcustomer serviceโโwhatever that means to him. Heโs said, out loud, that he doesnโt want anything โlow-end.โ And yet his rรฉsumรฉ is flimsy, his experience is spotty, and his computer skills are practically nonexistent. Heโs 34 and barely knows how to navigate the modern workplace. He doesnโt even grasp that heโs unqualifiedโbecause heโs never had to. The entitlement is staggering.
And then thereโs his politics.
The smug parroting of right-wing talking points. He doesnโt discuss issues (although he thinks he does)โhe recites slogans. โWhy are leftists obsessed with protecting thugs?โ he asked recently, like it was a clever observation and not a lazy, racist oversimplification. I used to ignore it. Smile through it. Iโve let so many moments like that pass just to avoid confrontation, just to preserve some imagined friendship that didnโt even serve me. He thinks we agree; I no longer have the energy to explain nuance to a man who wonโt even let me finish a sentence.
Hereโs the raw truth: Iโve spent years thinking, writing, and challenging myself to understand complexity. I believe in nuance, accountability, autonomy, contradiction. He believes in whatever gets the last word in a Facebook comment section. He doesnโt read. He doesnโt ask questions. He doesnโt evolve. His worldview is one long eye roll wrapped in entitlement.
And Iโm done pretending ignorance is harmless. Iโm done pretending this is someone I relate to.
And hereโs the kicker: I considered this person my best friend. Looking back, I must have been out of my damn mind.
Miles isnโt just emotionally chaotic. Heโs lazy. Uncurious. Brash. Foolish. Desperate. Privileged. And maybeโjust maybeโnot very intelligent. Not in any way that matters. Not in any way that will help him navigate a world that no longer gives soft landings to unskilled men with delusions of grandeur.
And Iโm done.
I am done being the emotional mule for other peopleโs crises. I am done performing calm for people who only text me when the sky is falling. I am done offering depth to people who only want surface-level connection until theyโre drowning.
You canโt build your life around broken people and then act surprised when youโre the one left in pieces.
So noโI didnโt respond to Milesโs text. Not for hours. For once, I chose silence rather than get sucked into the role of emotional caretaker for an adult child.
Because I am not your rehab. I am not your therapist. I am not your emergency contact.
I am a writer. A builder. A person with shit to do.
What happens next is anyoneโs guess. Maybe heโll end up in jail. Maybe heโll manage a Dunkinโ Donuts in a gay conservative outpost just outside Fort Worth. I donโt know, and Iโm done caring. I canโt continue caring about someone who doesnโt care for himself.
Read my work, or donโt. But donโt text me from jail.
The places I return to โ physically, spiritually, and otherwise.
New York City is changing, faster than ever, it seems. But these are a few of the places I return to โ sometimes physically, sometimes just in memory. Some are holdouts. Some are chains. Some are ridiculous. All of them are real to me. A combination of old and new in a city thatโs constantly shifting identities.
Iโve been going to Nathanโs for as long as I can remember. My paternal grandmother lived in Coney Island, and a visit always held the promise of a stop at the flagship location on Surf Avenue. As far as Iโm concerned, the Fourth of July isnโt complete without the Nathanโs Hot Dog Eating Contest broadcast โ and yes, Iโve watched every year, even when Iโve lived abroad. I even met Joey Chestnut once โ at a Kroger in Cincinnati, of all places. (He was lovely. Very polite. Iron stomach.)
Are the hot dogs overpriced? Absolutely. But theyโre also delicious. I stopped eating pork hot dogs decades ago โ too pale, too rubbery, too weird โ so the fact that Nathanโs uses all-beef kosher-style dogs (are they technically kosher? unclear) has always worked in my favor. The crinkle-cut fries are elite. The cheese fries? Divine. This place is a relic, a tourist trap, a national institution masquerading as a corner stand โ and I love it. Get the lemonade.
Chocolate Chip Walnut. Oatmeal Raisin. And my favorite โ the perennial Black and White Chocolate Chip. Decadent. Delectable. Delightful. No shade to Dominique Ansel, but Iโve never cared for the gooey treacliness of cronuts or the greasy pats of salted butter masquerading as cookies. Levain gets it right: hefty, crisp at the edges, chewy without being molten.
Anselโs Double Chocolate Pecan is quite good, and Iโll give credit where itโs due. But if you want a cookie fit for a queen? Go no further. Levain is the indulgence I crave when I want something truly celebratory โ and now, sadly, one I canโt quite afford. Iโm weirdly fine with that. Some cookies should be reserved for special occasions.
Yes, itโs touristy now. Sure, the ticket system makes me a little anxious every time. But Katzโs is still Katzโs. The question of pastrami or corned beef remains evergreen. Some people pretend thereโs a right answer. There isnโt. It matters less which option you choose than how you prepare it: get it in its original fatty state, falling apart on rye with grainy mustard โ it may be painfully overpriced for many nowadays, but it remains one of the most satisfying things you can eat in this city.
You donโt need the โIโll have what sheโs havingโ table to feel something here. Just the fluorescent hum, the clatter of trays, the guy at the counter who slices you a sample without being asked. Katzโs has personality, and a sense of humor: the last time I was there, someone had hung a framed photo of Al Goldstein eating pastrami next to the ladiesโ room. I nearly choked laughing. Whoever did that? God bless.
Katzโs is one of the few places in Manhattan that still feels like it operates on its own rules. Not faster, not fancier โ just there, pulsing with a very specific kind of New York energy. A sandwich, a Dr. Brownโs, fries or maybe a knish if youโre feeling bold. Itโs chaos, salt, and permanence.
I know what it represents: a sanitized burger chain posing as nostalgia, the poster child for gentrification served in a paper boat tray. Jeremiah Moss would spit on my crinkle fries. And yet โ Iโve been there, more than once. Midtown. Astor Place. Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn. Discreetly shoving my Shake Shack bag into a zippered reusable tote for the commute home.
I recently discovered the Shack Stack: a quarter-pound of 100% Angus beef with American cheese, topped with a crispy-fried portobello crown, lettuce, tomato, and ShackSauce on a toasted potato bun. Hands down, one of the best burgers Iโve ever had. I canโt deny it. Sometimes, youโre too tired to resist the tide. And a $9 burger tastes like a massage feels.
I love Serendipity 3 in large part because of the Warhol connection. Itโs sugary, campy, a little over the top โ exactly the kind of place that made sense in Andyโs orbit. Legend has it he adored the Frrrozen Hot Chocolate and the lemon icebox cake. My favorites? The โSummer Briesโ sandwich, once available only at the original East 60th Street location but now relegated to the Times Square spin-off: sliced turkey, melted Brie, sliced apples, alfalfa sprouts, raisin pumpernickel, and Thousand Island dressing. It shouldnโt work. It absolutely does. Perfect for the wandering palate โ mine included.
The frozen drinks are as absurd as they are wonderful. The Frrrozen Hot Chocolate is the classic, but Iโll take the Frrrozen Hot Strawberry White Chocolate any day. Serendipity is like a dreamscape of unique desserts and elevated American fare. I canโt afford it right now, but Iโve made peace with that. Some places, like Serendipity, should exist just outside your daily reality. Theyโre not for errands. Theyโre for occasions. They make you feel like youโve stepped sideways into a pastel-colored dream fueled by sugar and style.
I first learned about Jollibee from the late, great Anthony Bourdain โ which feels both extremely Filipino and extremely New York: a white guy with impeccable taste blessing the masses with a new brand of fried chicken and rice. In 2016, I made the pilgrimage to Woodside, Queens, home of the cityโs first Jollibee.
That mascot alone โ bee, bowtie, irrepressible joy โ was enough to earn my loyalty. But the real magic? Chickenjoy fried chicken, sweet Jolly Spaghetti, and the crisp, golden Peach Mango Pie. I still donโt understand why they took halo-halo off the menu. I mourn it like I mourn the McDonaldโs chicken fajita. (Yes, Iโm dating myself. I donโt care.)
There are candy stores, and then thereโs Economy Candy. No minimalist displays. No artisanal branding. Just bins, buckets, and chaos. Itโs what childhood felt like โ if childhood came with 2,000 kinds of sugar and walls nearly collapsing under the weight of nostalgia.
Licorice laces. Chocolate coins. Pez dispensers. Turkish taffy. Sour belts. International treats like Canadian Coffee Crisp, Japanese Kit Kats, and Milka bars (oh man, the Milka bars). The smell alone is half-sweet, half-industrial, and it sticks with you for hours. Iโve walked in with $5 and walked out with a sensory overload and at least one item I forgot I loved. Every time Iโm in there, I rediscover Chuckles. Itโs tied to a private joke, but I feel compelled to buy a pack anyway.
Itโs cluttered. Itโs dusty. Itโs everything a candy store should be. A place where joy is crammed onto every surface and no one is too old for sugar. Long live this storied institution.
Taim: bright, clean, unexpectedly satisfying. I discovered this place in 2014 through a coworker and walked out converted. The falafel โ crisp, herbaceous, soft inside โ is some of the best Iโve had outside the Middle East. The cauliflower shawarma pita has the power to uplift. But my personal recommendation: The Sabich Pita. Itโs not quite Sabich Frishman in Tel Aviv, but itโs the best Iโve had in the U.S. And get the fries, with any of the delicious sauces.
What I love about Taim is how quietly confident it is. No trend-chasing. No overwrought packaging. Just good food made well and served fast. Itโs healthy without being smug, casual without being forgettable.
In a city that sometimes confuses excess with quality, Taim is a reminder that simple can still slap.
Tucked under the Q train on Avenue U in Brooklyn, the Donut Shoppe โ also known as Shaikhโs Place โ is a relic of old New York charm. Its unassuming exterior hides the warmth inside, where the scent of freshly fried dough greets you at the door. The glazed donuts โ crisp on the outside, pillowy on the inside โ have a cult following, and the cheap coffee is a comforting constant in a city that never stops inflating its prices.
Cash only. The sandwiches and tacos are pretty good too. Open 24 hours, itโs the kind of spot where night owls and early risers cross paths over paper Anthora cups and quiet conversation about Yankees vs. Mets. Back in 1999, I was commuting from Bergen Beach and caught my bus right across the street. The Donut Shoppe was there then, and itโs still there now. Some places donโt need a rebrand.
Thereโs no reason this place should work. Maybe thatโs the real reason people have accused it of being a front for a criminal enterprise. Itโs a sleek, aggressively branded temple to rice pudding โ a dessert that sounds like something youโd be served at some sad hospital or institution. And yet, Rice to Riches is irresistible. Futuristic fonts. Wall-to-wall snark. A menu that reads like someone dared them to make rice pudding sexy.
Coconut Coma. Sex, Drugs, and Rocky Road. Oreo โGasm.โ You get the idea. The pudding itself? Shockingly good. Thick, creamy, borderline obscene in its richness. Dessert as performance art. Thereโs something deliciously unserious about walking into a place that treats rice pudding like haute couture for the stomach. Sometimes indulgence needs to be ridiculous.
I donโt know how much longer Iโll be here. But I know these places helped shape my life in this city โ and when I think of โhome,โ these are some of the flavors Iโll remember.
Or, Why Iโll Never Go Fully Digital (No Matter How Many Apps I Download)
There was a big roll-top desk in our apartment when I was a child. The kind with hidden compartments. It was grandiose and weighed a ton. My mother kept it stocked like a general store for the written word: stacks of notepaper, fountain pens, rubber stamps, fat highlighters, and a roll of postage stamps nestled in one of those round brass dispensers โ back when stamps had to be licked. We didnโt have embossers or wax seals, but we had everything else. That desk was a chapel of potential.
Photo by Ylanite Koppens via Pexels
Decades later, I am still devout, still loyal to paper and pen. Iโve spent years in sleek, paperless offices that worship at the altar of efficiency, and yet Iโve always had a notepad next to my keyboard โ college-ruled, cluttered with ink and marginalia.
I donโt just write โ I equip. My desk is a quiet armory of ink: Uni-ball, Zebra, Paper Mate, Pilot, Pentel, Sharpie. I know their weights and temperaments the way a violinist knows bows. A Schneider Slider glides when I need a ballpoint. A Uni-ball Vision Elite rollerball pen is for when I need to scribble something down quickly. The Pilot G-2 in 1.0? That oneโs telling bold truths. Pen choice is never random. Paper is never just paper. These tools โ humble, beautiful, cheap โ have gotten me out of bad jobs, bad relationships, and bad moods. A single scrap of paper and a decent pen can map a plan, draft an escape, or start a story. I may live in a digital world, but my soul still scribbles. This is a love letter โ not just to stationery, but to the physical act of committing thought to page.
I journal in composition notebooks covered in stickers; Iโve used college-ruled paper since the third grade โ and Iโm never going back. I carry pastel notepads for work, spiral-bound notebooks for world-building and travel plans, folders stuffed with scribbled scraps. My handwriting is sharp and fast, which means I smudge a lot โ but that just means the thoughts were moving faster than the ink could dry. Pens are chosen with care: rollerball for journaling, ballpoint for signatures, Pilot G-2s in assorted colors for nearly everything else.
Iโve never trusted the cloud the way I trust a notebook. I print out research. I highlight in pink and yellow. The right rollerball makes the thoughts flood the page; the wrong pen makes me feel like Iโve never had a thought in my life.
This is a love letter to all these tools. Not because I reject technology โ I use it, rely on it, even admire it. But it will never replace the feeling of dragging pink highlighter across a printed article, or peeling a cute sticky tab from a Daiso pack to flag a sentence that made me feel something. Pen and paper are cheap, portable, analog freedom. They ask for nothing but attention. And in a world obsessed with optimization, they remind me that slow, smudgy, handwritten thought is still worth honoring.
Pen and paper donโt require a password. They donโt crash. They donโt auto-correct my thoughts. They let me be slow and smudgy and nonlinear. And in that space โ somewhere between the click of a Sharpie S-Gel and the curl of a sticky tab โ I find something I donโt find anywhere else: my actual voice.
They ask for nothing but attention. And sometimes, thatโs everything.
If I were more financially well-off, Iโd be two clicks away from buying a bag, a cup, or a water bottle I absolutely do not need โ but feel, on some primal level, that I must have โ at any given moment.
A pink Stanley cup also whispers to me from TikTok, even though I already own a perfectly good Larq bottle, objectively superior by almost every metric.
Itโs not about need. Itโs about containment. Itโs about possibility.
The dream of holding my life โ all of it โ in one beautiful, sturdy, personal receptacle.
If youโve ever caught yourself pausing mid-scroll to admire a woman effortlessly breezing through an airport, Stanley cup in hand, designer tote slung casually over her shoulder like a badge of effortless womanhood, you know exactly what I mean.
Our obsession with containers โ the right purse, the right travel mug, the right anything โ isn’t just about aesthetics. It’s about autonomy. Identity. Control. Itโs about building a portable world we can survive in. Thereโs always the hope that if we can just find the perfect vessel, maybe we can carry everything life throws at us, too.
Like many others, Iโve lost hours to the TikTok vortex of โwhatโs in my bagโ videos โ the ones where women methodically unpack their lives: passports, protein bars, lip gloss, portable chargers, miniature pepper spray cans, even collapsible water bowls for their dogsโ and while Iโm not proud of it, Iโm not exactly sorry, either.
Itโs mesmerizing, and not just because Iโm nosy (though, okay, a little). Each video feels like a blueprint for survival. A glimpse into how other women armor themselves against the world. The bag isnโt just an accessory. Itโs a tactical unit. Itโs a plan. Itโs a small, beautiful rebellion against chaos.
Lately, my own plan revolves around a dream: someday owning a Birkin 35 โ caramel, pink, or slate gray โ in soft Togo leather.
Not because I want to flex it on Instagram.
Because I want to throw it under a cafรฉ table, overfill it with books and groceries, treat it like the battered, beloved tool it was originally designed to be, ร la the one and only Jane Birkin. To me, a Birkin isnโt a precious jewel destined to sit behind glass. Itโs freedom in a bag.
Capitalism taps into our primal need to consume, but the need exists with or without capitalism. Letโs not forget that Moscowโs famous shopping mall, the ะะปะฐะฒะฝัะน ะฃะฝะธะฒะตััะฐะปัะฝัะน ะะฐะณะฐะทะธะฝ โ GUM, or โMain Universal Storeโ โ thrived even at the heights of Soviet communism.
Hunger isnโt just for food; it can be for conversation, sex, safety โ and yes, for beautiful, useful objects. Even in scarcity, we yearn to possess, to hold, to prepare. Today, in a United States increasingly shadowed by scarcity, that hunger feels sharper than ever.
But maybe it’s not just about wanting things. Maybe it’s about wanting to hold things โ to gather safety, autonomy, and a little beauty into a world that often feels unsafe, uncontrollable, and ugly.
For women especially, containers have always meant more than convenience. Theyโve been survival kits, toolboxes, medicine cabinets, and hope chests โ a way to carry not just what we need, but who we are.
What Iโd Pack in My Dream Bag
(Because if youโre carrying your life, you might as well carry it in style.)
Portable charger: Because nothing says โmodern survivalโ like a phone at 2% on the subway.
Wallet: Leather, in โcognacโ โ slightly worn, stuffed with six months of ATM receipts.
Multiple reusable bags: For grocery runs, bookstore hauls, and bad decisions at Sephora.
Snack: Maybe one of those underdog strawberry Elevation bars from Aldi. Or maybe chocolate.
A novel: Thriller or romance, depending on whether I need adrenaline or affection.
Perfume vial: A tiny glass bottle of courage, gifted by my friend Jeannine.
Hair essentials: Scrunchie, clip, and enough bobby pins to build a fortress. (Don’t ask.)
Cash: Because when WiFi fails, cash still works.
Business card holder: Olive green pleather โ because Iโm faking it until I make it.
Massive pink keychain: Puffball, kitty cat knuckles, card wallet, seatbelt cutter, window breaker, key knife, kawaii wristlet, Kubotan, brass whistle, and pepper spray โ with lingering annoyance that the State of New York wonโt let me order basic self-defense tools online like a sane person.
Datebook: Yes, a paper one. Yes, I actually use it.
Cosmetic bag: Lip balm, two lipsticks (neutral blush and power red), tiny mascara, hand cream, tampons, alcohol wipes, flossers, eye drops โ and a few tiny mysteries I rediscover every time I clean it out.
(Because if youโre carrying your life, you might as well carry it in style.)
In other words: Everything I need to survive a blackout, a date, a spontaneous overnight trip, a bad meeting, a good bookstore, and the entire emotional rollercoaster of modern womanhood.
Why We Carry
Image generated by AI
Women have always been vessels in the most literal sense โ bearers of life, caretakers, carriers of style and culture. And while I donโt romanticize the expectation that women must carry and nurture, I also canโt deny how deeply the image runs. Thereโs something almost archetypal about it: the idea that to be ready is to be safe. To be self-contained is to be powerful.
Having essentials at your fingertips makes the world feel slightly less overwhelming. Knowing that there’s cash, keys, or a stun gun tucked safely inside your bag can be the difference between feeling prepared and feeling powerless. Physical protection isnโt theoretical โ it’s real. Ask any woman who’s ever navigated a dark parking garage or a deserted subway platform at 1:00 in the morning.
While a pink teddy bear-shaped personal alarm or a gold key knife might seem silly to some, these aren’t just trinkets. Theyโre the modern tools of autonomy โ everyday spells of protection and preparation.
Itโs Not Just Stuff
Image generated by AI
In the end, a Birkin isnโt about luxury. Itโs about permission: to carry my life proudly โ messy, glamorous, real.
Weโre not obsessed with containers because weโre frivolous. Weโre obsessed because they give shape to everything we carry: dreams, fears, lipsticks, seatbelt cutters, love notes, tampons, prayers, receipts.
A bag isnโt just a place to put things. Itโs a place to be โ messy, prepared, alive. Itโs a world we build for ourselves, one vessel at a time.
Whatโs in your dream bag? Tell me โ Iโd love to know what essentials you canโt live without. ๐โจ
DISCLAIMER: I have tried to recreate events, locations, and conversations from memory. Some names and identifying details have been changed.
It has now been several โ approaching many โ years since the salad days of college. Iโve grown in a myriad of ways. I had, until recently, a โrealโ job โ and may have one again. But before that, prior to about 2017, a solid chunk of my early work experience came from the service industry: barista, server, cleaning crew member. Some roles I look back on with mild fondness; others with lingering anger. More importantly, all have left me with a vast array of quirky workplace stories. One of them takes me back over a decade, to the spring and summer of 2013.
Staying Behind
In May of that year, I had just wrapped up my junior year at Purchase College in Westchester County, New York. In an effort to assert my independence, I opted not to return home to Brooklyn for the summer. Instead, I stayed in Westchester, thanks to my friend at the time, Sierra, who offered me her room in her parentsโ house in Ossining while she headed to Northern California to stay with her boyfriend. She didnโt know how long sheโd be gone, and I didnโt ask many questions. It felt like a perfect solution.
Landing the Job
I figured Iโd find a summer job quickly โ and I did. I landed a position as a counter server at a fast-casual organic restaurant in White Plains, reachable by Westchesterโs Bee-Line bus system. I didnโt have a car or even a driverโs license at the time. Growing up in New York City, driving wasnโt a priority โ and driverโs ed was never in the budget. The Bee-Line buses and I got acquainted fast, and I quickly learned why the vast majority of people in Westchester cling to their cars.
The Health Bar Life
The restaurant billed itself as a โhealth bar,โ with organic cold-pressed juices as its main attraction. They also served wraps, smoothies, grain bowls, salads, and โsweet potato meals,โ which were literally just reheated sweet potatoes with toppings. My uniform consisted of an olive-green patrol cap, a white T-shirt emblazoned with the phrase “CHUG IT, LIVE IT, LOVE IT,” and a cartoon coffee cup with wings. Paired with jeans and fluorescent orange Reeboks, I looked like a hyper-caffeinated crossing guard. That shirt was doomed from the start โ permanently stained with berry juice, cacao powder, and sweat within the first couple of weeks.
Lightning in bottles (or so they said). This wasn’t even their full collection of juices!
At eight dollars an hour โ a whole seventy-five cents above minimum wage at the time โ it wasnโt white-collar work, but it was something. I was trained by Eileen, a brisk, no-nonsense woman in her fifties. My first task was to hand-bag loose tea into silk sachets, a chore allegedly designed to extend the teaโs freshness. It would be the first of many tasks whose point would grow increasingly hard to detect.
Long Days, Longer Shifts
I spent my first couple of weeks at the health bar working the 11:00 AM to 4:00 PM shift, including the supposed โlunch rushโ that seldom materialized. Most days blurred into long, boring stretches of wiping counters and standing around, trying to look busy. Eileen warned me that Sloane โ the owner, and wife of one of Westchesterโs most successful real estate developers โ would often watch the restaurantโs security cameras remotely, then call to complain if anyone was caught standing still. Many a countertop got wiped down out of sheer paranoia.
The Watchful Eye of Sloane
Sloane lived in the Residences at the White Plains Ritz-Carlton, and her occasional presence in the restaurant was dreaded by all. The first time we met, she demanded a โcacao coffee.โ No one had yet shown me how to prepare that particular item, so she screamed at me. She wore dark sunglasses and had a face so full of Botox that it barely moved. She also screamed if Pandora (the music streaming service) stopped playing. We had to keep the pop music going at all times. That summerโs soundtrack was Gotyeโs Somebody That I Used to Know, Daft Punkโs Get Lucky, and Robin Thickeโs Blurred Lines โ all blaring over the hum of smoothie blenders.
The restaurant was remarkably clean but simultaneously maintained questionable compliance with health codes. I didnโt once see a date dot on anything during my time there. However, the place always smelled pleasantly of fresh fruits and vegetables. Neither the manager of the health bar nor his backup, Sloaneโs personal assistant, had any real concept of running a restaurant. The manager seemed more concerned with CrossFit than anything happening on the floor.
The health bar that promised vitality and good vibesโฆand delivered neither.
Commuting Chaos
Despite there being less than fifteen miles between White Plains and Ossining, getting to and from work was an ordeal from the start. I couldnโt take opening shifts because there were no buses running that early.
Most of the time I worked closing shifts instead, but even then, the Bee-Line buses would stop running before I could get back to the house. That left me with one option: calling a cab. A one-way ride from White Plains to Ossining cost a minimum of thirty dollars โ nearly four hours of work at my eight-dollar wage โ and that was if a cab would even come. Some nights I sat on the curb outside the Walmart across the street, wiping sweat and smeared Almay concealer off my face with my already stained T-shirt, blasting the Rolling Stones through my cheap earbuds, trying not to think about how much money I was losing just by existing.
Walmart Dinners
Since spending half my paycheck on cab fare wasn’t depressing enough, I usually capped off my night by wandering Walmartโs fluorescent aisles, looking for something โ anything โ to fill my stomach. It wasnโt uncommon for a midnight dinner to double as my first and last meal of the day. Iโd load up on whatever felt easiest: a couple of microwaveable meals (Healthy Choice butternut squash ravioli was my go-to), a tube or two of Pringles โ original or pizza-flavored โ and an energy drink to keep me upright until I made it back to Ossining.
Sierraโs parents were light sleepers, so I tried to avoid making noise in their kitchen after hours. Most nights Iโd quietly nuke a plastic tray of food and eat it cross-legged on Sierraโs bed, the smell of sweet potatoes and melted cheese blending into the damp summer air.
Business, and Life, Slowing Down
Business at the health bar was often painfully slow. Most customers were affluent, wellness-obsessed types, fully bought into the juice-fast culture of the era. When July came around, the health bar offered a Groupon for their juices. This led to a flood of new customers โ and a flood of dumb questions. (“Can we replace the Replenish juice because the negligible amount of Himalayan pink salt threatens my health?”) A well-known rapper became a semi-regular; I still remember his order: arugula salad, no tomatoes, tuna instead of chicken.
The interior of the health bar
Between the cab rides, bus fares, convenience food, and the occasional splurge โ a couple of drinks at a bar, frozen yogurt, a halfway decent meal โ I was chronically broke. My meager wages barely covered my rides home, let alone allowed me to save.
As the summer dragged on, the physical exhaustion layered with a deeper, scarier fatigue: a creeping fear that maybe this โ the endless cycle of low pay, bad management, and expensive survival โ was all my future would ever hold.
The Breaking Point
It was a lonely kind of tired, sitting cross-legged on a borrowed bed, scraping the last bites of microwaved pasta out of a plastic tray, scrolling through pictures of Sierraโs adventures in California. At nineteen or twenty, youโre supposed to believe you have the world at your feet. I felt like the world had been padlocked shut โ and Iโd somehow lost the key.
By August, it became untenable โ physically, financially, emotionally. I made the decision to leave the job early and spend the last couple of weeks of summer doing nothing in particular. I was making so little money that not having a job barely made a difference. That said, I was happy to no longer be serving $12 smoothies to wealthy housewives. The restaurant itself closed down a few years later, as did the Walmart across the street.
Lessons That Stayed
While Iโm no longer bagging tea or scrubbing countertops to shitty pop music, money, stability, and creative fulfillment remain stubbornly elusive. But I’m different now. I have more agency, more awareness of what I can and canโt tolerate. Iโm still fighting for a better life, but at least now, I’m fighting on my own terms.
The Summer of Blah wasnโt a failure. It was my first real education in resilience, self-knowledge, and the economic realities no one warned us about.
The sage green Longchamp tote Classic. Durable. Professional. The Executive Assistant starter pack. I used to think it was sleek and timeless. Now it feels like a soft-sided box I carry my old self around in. Iโm eyeing a Cuyana zipper tote like itโs a one-way ticket to my next life.
My bag: where past meets present, and every item hints at a future yet to unfold. Image generated by AI
Three lip balms and zero restraint. Thereโs the Burtโs Bees Coconut & Pear (default mode when I donโt need tint), Sugarโs Tinted Lip Treatment in three colors (Papaya for boldness, Peony for softness, Icon when Iโm feeling like I might seduce someone accidentally), and an ultra-hydrating balm I rotate depending on how dry and over-it I am. For some reason, I feel like my lips should always be readyโeven if Iโm not.
A paperback novel I probably wonโt finish anytime soon. Could be Harlan Cobenโcould be Sara Cate, could be some economic text about late-stage capitalism or a treatise on the origins of Islamic terrorism. My brain doesnโt settle on a genre because my life hasnโt settled on a genre. I like books that feel like escapes, or puzzles, or confessions. Bonus points if it fits in my bag and I donโt care if it gets bent or warped.
Half a protein bar. Usually a Quest bar or the strawberry Elevation meal bar from Aldi. I carry it like I might actually eat it. I probably wonโt. But the idea of โbeing preparedโ soothes me.
Pens. So many pens. Black. Blue. Red. Gel. Ballpoint. A rogue Sharpie. Iโm apparently ready to edit a legal document, take meeting notes, and deface a posterโall in one afternoon.
Two (or three) backup totes. Because one bag is never enough. Because I donโt trust the world to be predictable. Because if thereโs free stuff, an impromptu errand, or a sudden urge to flee the city, I need options.
My passports (yes, plural). U.S. and Polish. I like the way they feel in my hand. Like I have options. Like if I really had to, I could vanish at the drop of a hat.
A pamphlet from Chabad-Lubavitch. Handed to me on the street, probably. I always mean to recycle them. But they keep reappearing somehow.
Euros. I donโt know why theyโre still in there. Maybe because they remind me that Iโve been somewhere. That Iโll go again. That Iโm not just who I am here.
One (1) condom. Courtesy of Planned Parenthood. Crushed at the bottom, next to a crumpled receipt and a cosmetic pouch. I donโt know why I keep it there, but I do.
A scrunchie and a hair tie. For the illusion of control. I used to tie my hair back when I worked in restaurants, and the impulse is still there.
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