Here I am. A whole paradigm away from the excruciatingly hip Echo Park enclave we vacated last winter. I’m starting to feel (even more) ridiculous in my skinny jeans and rock Ts. “The Artist’s Way,” a book I sneered at three years ago, is now resonating with me. Deeply. I’m considering a tattoo. Perhaps the words “MY LIFE IS HAPPY AND FULFILLED” on the palms of my hands. That way, even when I strike a despairing pose (head-in-hands, for instance) I’ll literally be face-to-face with my future, manifesting only good things. Cough. Surely some of you know what I’m talking about here. Why else would The Atlantic tout on its cover, a piece on the world’s most comprehensive happiness study? (Turns out friends and relatives are what’s keeping you alive.) And why else would I receive three emails in a week, by three unrelated individuals pointing me to that over-achiever Gretchen Rubin and her Happiness Project? It all comes back to the economy, I’m afraid. When we can no longer afford to shop our pain away, when an afternoon in Target isn’t the blissed-out experience it used to be, (all that plastic. so wasteful.) we are forced to turn inward. Hey, can someone turn a light on in here?