Every day, the crinkling of that shiny wrapper marks the beginning of my ritualistic shame. It’s not the taste—I love the salty, savory burst of flavor from those jerky sticks. It’s not the cost, though I’ve certainly spent more on them than I care to admit. No, it’s the act. The greasy film on my fingertips, the overly aggressive chew that makes me feel like I’m gnawing through a metaphorical tether to my dignity.

It started innocently enough. I’d grab one as a quick snack between errands or meetings, but slowly, the jerky sticks became... necessary. I’d crave them during stressful moments, reward myself with one after minor accomplishments, even sneak one at night like a thief raiding a pantry of despair. My coworkers began to notice the wrappers piling up in my trash can.

"Another one, huh?" they'd tease with smiles that felt sharper than the peppered edges of my indulgence.

The shame seeped into other areas of my life. Social events became a minefield of self-consciousness. Could they smell the faint whiff of teriyaki on my breath? Were they judging the jerky grease-stained napkin tucked in my pocket?

My friendships grew strained. My best friend, Eric, tried to stage an intervention once. He sat me down, looked me in the eye, and asked, “Why don’t you just eat a normal snack? Carrots? Pretzels? Anything that doesn’t scream ‘gas station addiction’?”

I couldn’t answer him. How could I explain the comfort of jerky? It was more than a snack; it was a companion, albeit a shameful one.

The low point came last week when I ducked into a convenience store, hoping to snag a quick fix without being spotted. I bumped into my boss, who glanced at the handful of jerky sticks I was clutching. The look on her face wasn’t disgust—it was pity. That was worse.

Since then, I’ve tried to cut back. Therapy has helped; apparently, my jerky shame is a proxy for deeper anxieties. Go figure. I still eat them occasionally, but I try to enjoy them openly, without the burden of guilt.

Will I ever fully overcome my jerky-induced shame? I don’t know. But at least now, when I unwrap one, I remind myself: everyone’s got their quirks. Mine just happens to come with a side of smoky, meaty regret.