Why, then, does it feel so… icky? And what does this have to do with an enchilada casserole? Bear with me.
I first noticed this feeling of nebulous, bile-flavored guilt when I was in my early twenties. I was in a similar place: good job, living alone in San Francisco, with a whole crew of friends to keep me occupied. I was young and perky. I was actively engaged in city life and there was no inkling of the health or nuptial drama to come later that same decade.
Overall I was doing well but something was dragging me down, making me feel tossed about on the waves of my nice little life. Only I couldn’t seem to articulate that sensation, so I just felt depressed and anxious all the time, looking for vague ways to “improve my life.” This included bike riding, photography school, roasting a metric fuck-ton of chickens, quitting my job, moving out of state, getting my BA, a bouquet of bad boyfriends and fair-weather friends, and countless all-night underground dance parties with requisite extracurricular activities. But nothing quelled the festering ick. Read more >>