Confessions of a Spiritual Dickhead
My monastic lifestyle and holier-than-thou righteousness covered up a long-held secret
It has been my experience that before we know who we are, we learn who we’re not.
I spent my twenties learning I wasn’t a coke-snorting frat boy, or an Upper East Side yuppie in a pinstripe suit. And in my early thirties, I had to swallow the hard fact that I’d never be a downtown fashion influencer, or a rare-vinyl-collecting Brooklynite.
But there was another identity left to try on. One that came disguised in the tie-dye and Birkenstocks of peace, love, and good vibrations.
When “spirituality” went mainstream a few years ago — either as a by-product of the health and wellness rage in Western culture, or a reaction to our frightening political and environmental future — I was an easy convert. I’m pretty sure it all started when I wrote this piece for GQ back in 2016 about how I overcame my shopping addiction.
By the time I’d emptied my closets of rare selvage denim and lavender pinstripe Paul Stuart suits, I was sure of it: I had single-handedly beaten materialism! I sent the link out to everyone I knew still blowing their entire paychecks on Celine. Sheep, they were. I was so morally superior.
