When I was four years old, my mother brought me to a dim office tucked away in the far corner of a sprawling hospital complex. I remember brown. Brown walls. Brown filing cabinet. Brown sofa. The office smelled like band-aids. I had to sit in a grown up chair. My feet swung inches above the floor. My heels smacked against the chair legs.

We were in a nutritionist’s office, and I was about to embark on my very first diet.

The nutritionist was neither beautiful nor threatening. Whe. . .

In between leaving my last Chicago apartment and moving to Portland, I lived with a friend for three months — in a house, without Wi-Fi. It was a beautiful home Christina had purchased in 2009 in a then up-and-coming neighborhood. She gutted and renovated it, and was proudest of the kitchen. This area boasted a bar, custom kitchen cabinets to accommodate her lean 5’9” stature, and stainless steel appliances. Elsewhere in the house she diligently picked paint colors and wood trim and, in the ma. . .