This blog is almost a complete joke. Almost. So just keep on reading and maybe you'll get to the part where I'm serious-- and I am serious, about nutrition.
See, I have this big issue, a huge issue, as a vegetarian.
I AM A TEENAGER.
Does that give you a sense? Just saying "teenager" connotes images of pubescent fury, frustration, the Thermopoli of high school, and gigantic, seemingly uncontrollable cravings for stuff. That stuff is usually food, good food. And by "good food" I mean to say "bad food." The things I loved to eat as a tubby preteen, with a stomach that protruded far past my chest, stuffed my arteries like a badly made Build-a- Bear, turned my skin into an uneven debacle, made me smell like the Cookie Monster (which I was), and, most of all, made me fat, just in time for middle school.
In that very first hellish week, when we realized that class no longer came to us, I had an epiphany, and, contrary to what you might think, it had nothing to do with me suddenly feeling bad about my weight (resentment had already been my steadfast partner years). The Spanish teacher didn't come.
The Spanish teacher didn't come? "What does that have to do with nutrition?" you ask me. Well, in her absence we watched an enlightening video about Spanish culture. Very enlightening. We watched a bullfight-- the romanticised, grandiose, frenetic, fantastic Run of the Bulls, and regarded with awe as some courageous bullfighters in blazing red took a stab at a few of those unfeeling beasts, the enemy named Torro. Some of the children were exhilarated, blown away by the sensation of it all. I, with my pastrami sandwich churning in my cloudy little stomach, was more than sick-- I was angry. It was the same feeling I get today when I watch Holocaust films, that same desire to get up and scream, cry, repent for the disgusting world in which it seems, at that moment, we exist in. I couldn't believe that people would yell and cheer as a living creature, an animal with a nervous system, with eyes to see, with ears to listen, with a mouth to moan in pain, was being tortured for sport. The bull came out, distressed into oblivion, into bucking insanity, with swords bouncing around, tips in his back. I could feel his flesh being torn roughly, his crazed desire to get those knives out of its back, to sit quietly in a field and let the pain mitigate. This isn't just you stubbing your toe on your bedpost, this is twenty knives cutting into your spine. This is not only pain, but frustration, helplessness, and I couldn't stand to watch it. That day, I, the meat eater of the modern centuries, more carnivorous than the most ravenous Viking, married to my cravings for steak, kebabs, ribs, hamburgers, fried chicken, tuna sandwiches, orange duck... decided that I was going to be a vegetarian.
At first, it was hard to keep the drool inside my mouth, as I watched my family dig into the ribs I formerly worshipped. Luckily, I still had most of my junk food to comfort me. I lived with my carbs always there to make me forget that I was deprived of what had before been the majority of my sustenance. I was fierce in my devotion to carbs, to fat, and to cholosterol. They were my life. So all that talk about how just dropping meat makes the fat disappear? All lies. Before I became a vegetarian I was perpetually sick; after becoming a vegetarian, I was still sick. I was still hypoglycemic, still had sky-high tryglycerides, my cholesterol was out of wack (that was the only aspect of my blood that improved even slightly), and I still felt and looked horrific.
It was not until now that I finally decided I had to do something about it. My body is in a state of gross dilapidation. I can't finish a conversation with my parents without their complaining about my weight; I can't go shopping and find something that is flattering on my fairly slim frame, with my stomach sticking out like a foreign invasion; my friends have names for my belly; most of all, my overall health is a disaster. But what am I to do about my manifest problem? I'm certainly not going back to meat after six years of feeling so proud knowing that I am doing the right thing... but I still want to cater to my inner hedonist. And as a teenager, we all know that my self control is not the best. Two weeks ago, I was lost; I didn't know how I was going to fix myself.
What I needed was a goal, a project, and motivation. A few weeks ago, one of my best friends came to me and mentioned that she had blood work done, and the results were terrifying. She was pre-diabetic and her numbers were at striking heights. One of the things her doctor said she had to do was eliminate meat almost completely. Andrea loves meat, let me make that clear, and her palate is what I would call, stereotypically limited. In addition, she is desperately afraid of diets and self-control. I realized then that I had someone to work through this with. Both of us needed to lose weight, feel better about ourselves, and improve what we were putting in our bodies. We-- Me, You, and Andrea-- are going on what we have come to call a "lifestyle change." My goal for us is to find ways to stop dreaming about Carl's Jr. Chicken Teriyaki sandwiches and Capriotti's thanksgiving subs, and just be satisfied with what we're eating. I hope we can all come to understand that we're not missing anything in our lives, save a lot of gore on slaughterhouse floors, and be content with how we feel, how we look, and what we're eating.
I welcome you in classic teenager fashion to my world: Grunt.
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