On my driver’s license, it says a skinny 115 lbs at my 16 year old frame.

You see though, of course, years have passed and I am not quite the same. Yes, a little more weight. Yet, maybe I have more muscle now. My experience is heavy. My scars droop.

About once a month, I cave into this worry about my appearance. I look down and worry about the barely noticeable inner tube. I look at my feet and wish they were smaller…dainty. I wish my ankles would not be cankles. And I look at my face and wish that it was blemish-free. Clear, perfect just like the woman I am supposed to be.

Yet I am crippled by childhood memories where I learned that it was not ok to look different and be different.

Then I revert.

I really don’t care. I would rather wear my black yoga pants (even though I dislike yoga) and my hoodie all day. I wear makeup only a few days out of the year—usually for a wedding or a costume party. And usually, it’s quite a mess because I don’t have the practiced hand of lining my eyes perfectly. Lotion? What’s that? Nail polish? My shoes are all scuffed, even my flats. Because yes, I have ran in them. Into water.

Sometimes I wonder how I ended up this way. My sister is quite the opposite—rarely going out without makeup. She has her outfits carefully put together in the proper New York City style. My mom wore red lipstick frequently and indulged regularly at the Estee Lauder counter.

For now, I like to wander around without the required eyeliner (of a Mission hipster), without the tight jeans (because obviously I would rather be more comfortable)…although now I have upgraded to nice shaded hipster sneakers of light aqua and bright yellow.

I really mean candy crush. That is, Candy Crush Saga.

Just to be clear, I have not fallen to the prey of easy micro payments.

As a lover of sweets, I was drawn to the candy part. The sounds of the candy being crushed appealed to my sweet tooth. And my weakness and impatience for sucking on candies. I naturally just eat most hard candies in one bite. Moreover, the candy crush sound effect massages my happy place (in my mind). Every single time.

With every crush, I feel the taste of a lemon drop, a chiclet, a blueberry jelly bean, a cinnamon jellybean and a purple candy. It doesn’t help that I pretty much have similar candy that I arbitrarily purchased in Philadelphia in May, sitting on my desk. They’s shaped like fish. But every time that I look at them, I think CANDY CRUSH SAGA.

I would love to say that I have very good self-control for not dipping into micropayments of 99 cents for extra boosts and extra lives. Yet the primary reason that I cannot is that I don’t have the password for my iTunes account (complicated reason).

But if I did, would I submit to addiction? Would I see more candies being crushed every moment? The fact is that the “energy buildup” game mechanic tickles my want-to-play center. It’s as if the game was designed for my psychology. That it understood what made me crave and desire. Too much.

Not to anyone’s surprise, I live in a bubble.

Although I would like to believe that I relate to any middle class person, I live like the upper middle class. When I watch my behavior and observe my preferences, they are stereotypically white and upper class. I barely know anybody who makes a working class wage (beyond my second cousins and a former friend—indeed, the former friend and I had a falling out because of our differences in our approach to finances). I barely watch any standard mainstream TV shows, because simply I don’t like it. I don’t like the mainstream movies, except big blockbusters of action and excitement. I rarely buy any name brand products and I refuse to eat in chain restaurants. If I had a choice (and endless budgeting), everything I eat would be organic, farm-raised, and free-range.

I am a San Franciscan. I eat at taquieras when I feel cheap. I eat at fancy pants Japanese Izakaya restaurants when I have money to spend. Then I spend time watching independent films, especially those from foreign countries. I love subtitles and wish that they were everywhere. I love small businesses and try not to frequent big box retailers. If I could, I wouldn’t drive a car…and a car does not represent who I am.

Last weekend, a friend talked about her now ex-boyfriend. She talked about an evening when she came home with dreams. Dreams of a year abroad, traveling, eating, drinking, etc. Her passion and fervor engulfed the room. Then with a single swoop, he exclaimed, “What about our apartment? The rent? Money?”

And in that moment, she knew that he wasn’t quite right.

What do you do when you’re with someone who doesn’t have shared dreams. That your dreams must melt into a mess in sorrow.

In the last year, in trying to figure out my own project, I have read a lot of new authors. In many of them, they have a supportive partner. A partner that says, “You can do what you need to do.” I read about Ang Lee and how his wife encouraged him tirelessly. Because why have an unhappy rich partner when you can have a happy poor partner?

I don’t know if I will succeed, but I am glad that I am trying.

…they buy why you do it.

Which seems rather simple as we watched the video in the staff meeting on Monday.

I met an older guy a few weeks ago during a tech meetup. When he approached us, he declared that he created something innovative. He pointed at his bike. I saw a colorful pinwheel attached to the handlebars. I tried hard to look for something. I started opening my mouth to laugh when I realized that he was not joking. “These are fun and safe!” he exclaimed.

I saw the packaging. A clear packaging stabled to a poorly design cardboard label featured stock photos of a happy girl on bike and happy mommys. In the kindest way possible, I asked, “Do these sell for 99 cents?”

Being polite, I decided not to ride away from him and let him spit out (literally and figuratively) his plan to me. And through it all, I challenged him. Not quite asking the why, I continued to ask, “What unifies all of this together? What is the mission?”

That’s when he stepped forward and smiled. “This is just a small part of the puzzle, Jennifer.” He touched me on my arm for emphasis. “This is going to help me be an environmental activist.”

His eyes glowed with passion.

At that moment, I felt uncomfortable and took a few steps back. Whether it was the awkward touch that kept increasing in frequency or how I sensed that…I couldn’t buy the why. It was unrelated. I saw the bright colors. The sparkles. The oddly shaped attachment. And I thought, why would I ever buy this?

Ever since I read “I was paid to eat snacks”, my secret love of free food (especially snacks) has come out. Full frontal. Unashamed.

Because who doesn’t love snacks? Especially when they’re free?

Unlike the rest of America, I grew up starved of afternoon snacks. I come home after school after a long squawky-voice-of-neighbors-mother-who-is-helicopter-parent-carpool ride and snacks are not present. After all, that is the Chinese way. You eat when it is dinner.

Occasionally, my mom would offer up fruit or something unsatisfying food. Although granted, I was used to it and never thought to have snacks…until college. Suddenly with a small salary from my IT job, I could afford ridiculous amount of snacks. Candy, pretzels, juice. You name it. But the fact that I had to pay for it often took away from the joy.

As in: I JUST ATE $3 IN TWO MINUTES. Because as you know, every cent counts as a college student.

That continued for another 6 years through graduate school. Then boom, it was over. Real world. Real salaries. Real offices. (Sort of, my first job was in the VP of Engineering’s apartment.)

Then suddenly as I entered the world of real jobs. That is, real office jobs, I discovered FREE SNACKS. I had this habit of getting up every 30 minutes to get snacks. Sometimes I would feign going to the restroom (which was of course in an apartment, awkwardly placed between everything) then I would do this crazy sidestep to the snack counter. Jackpot.

Then later, I got a real office job. In a design agencies no less. No there, people cared about quality. Although I still gorged on the Red Vines. Then at my next company—the smallest one yet, my voice finally found its purpose. Because now I had say. And now I could say NO YUCKY CHEEZ STIX, LETS HAVE DRIED FRUIT. (You see I had become all organic and wholesome, by this point). One time, the head of the company sent me to Trader Joe’s where I went on a shopping spree of dried fruit, high-end trail mix, and lightly crisped chips paired with gently mixed guacamole. This is also the period in my life where I baked. Cookies and muffins magically appeared on our snack table. I had discovered the best way to get rid of my unwanted snacks.

Then I entered the world of being in-house. That is, in tech. You see, by this point, I had visited Google and Twitter, loving the fact that they had free food. But snacks? Well, I loved the magical arrays of beverages—not just soda mind you. Expensive teas, Odwalla juices, coconut water. Then the candies. Cheese wheels! Did I just walk into a snack room?

But I remember when an executive once mentioned as the company was struggling, “We can’t take away the snacks. That will send a message.”

Today, I attended an industry event held at a large office. While everyone chattered, I grabbed a bag of sour watermelon and a bottle of sweet tea. It was so tasty.

At first, embarrassment overcomes me as pinkness oozes into my cheeks. Yet the urge to compete and win is so overwhelming.

I don’t like to show a stranger my anxiety, my insanity, my irrationality. So I try my best to blend in. But in every single game, I find it easy to play as the clueless player. Because most of the time, I truly really don’t have an idea what I am doing. In board games and video games.

The colorful board pieces, the detailed instructions, the buttons that need mashing…I almost tune out. And I don’t want to be the one that says, “Now I hear that you just gave out instructions. But in case that I didn’t understand, can you repeat it?”

Yup, that’s me. In the midst of groans.

So the games when a select few play undercover, I immediately retreat to playing for what just entertains me. For what causes the most chaos. For what seems the most entertaining and disruptive. Or just cluelessly destroying anything in my path as I plow through the board. Or being that one character on the screen, jumping up and down punching in the air in the corner because I didn’t know that I was supposed to be fighting the crazy looking red monster. Of course, I didn’t know!

Yup, that’s me.

“Candy crush saga almost ruined my company,” a friend once declared, describing his co-founder’s obsession.

Hearing that, I was intrigued. Throughout my life, various casual games have passed through my hands. Chibo Robo, Animal Crossing and Fat Princess were the rare ones that stayed with my hands…for awhile. Yet, they too drifted away. But they never did occupy my time at night.

At my first real job, a coworker was trying to understand nighttime rituals for a new product experience. And I simply described my post-college evening ritual. After returning from work (or an evening out), I automatically spent an hour or two on my computer—chatting with friends, socializing, browsing. Then as sleep fell upon me, I brushed my teeth then retire to bed. Instead of a book that once occupied my mind right before sleeping…for many years, back then, I would start playing games on the Nintendo DS (note this is before the era of iPhones). I told him, “It’s to get myself really tired.”

Years later, I find myself falling into similar behavior. My friends have grown up drifting away from the need for connection online. I have too, appreciating the solace and the silence offered by sitting at my computer. I love wrapping myself into a burrito while I drift into sleep. But suddenly, because of that initial intrigue, the casual game before sleep came back.

It’s dangerous.

When I first played the game, the colors reminded me of my one only vice. Sugar. Candy. With every match of the candies, I could feel a candy crunch satisfyingly in my mind. As the candies fell on the board, the ooze and the kick felt so real in my teeth. I could even feel the tingle at the tip of my gums. Lately, I have been on the levels with the chocolate growing like funghi. And today, I truly faltered and found myself at a Safeway, buying chocolate, unable to resist.

So today in a few moments after writing a bit more in my major project, I will retire to bed with candy crush saga helping me to drift away.

Eight years ago standing near a large lawn near a college campus, a song blared with heavy drumbeats and catchy melody. In the distance, I spotted figures moving up and down. I started nodding my head with the beat. Looking at my friend, I said, “I want to dance!”

She frowned at the music.

I wish at that moment that I lost myself and danced. Danced like nobody was watching. But instead, I stood solemnly with her. Perhaps she saw noise. I saw joy, and then felt disappointment as I stood there.

My carpool mate suddenly asked, “How old are you?”

Just moments before, he talked about more than 15 years of moving from Norway back to Denmark then back to Norway then back to Denmark then to the United States. His struggles with relationships that made him make hard choices, often leading by emotions than logic. As so he claimed.

I shared how I went to college, then went to graduate school, then started working and climbed up levels, always wanting to move, but never quite moving. Changing jobs so frequently like all my peers in the Bay Area.

In his voice, I heard the sudden tinge of nervousness as he asked for my age. He looked for confirmation that my years of experience was equal to his years of experience. That seniority is equivalent to age. It was a common hint of anxiety I have heard from people older than me in the Bay Area. Especially where the youth is much more valued than the old.

As I started answering, I worried for a moment that his anxiety would rise. But how could I avoid the answer and shift seamlessly to another topic without awkwardness?