I ate pepperoni yesterday. I'm not even sure I can say it was by mistake because even as I was tasting and chewing and swallowing those spicy little circles, I was completely unaware of the error and hypocrisy of my ways.
The setting: a picnic. The regretted consumable: pepperoni and spinach pizza. It was about twenty minutes after I'd consumed one slice of eggplant and one slice of the pepperoni-spinach (the pepperoni was still tingling my tongue just so) when my friend Julie asked me, "So how's the vegetarian thing going?" Immediately, I realized what I had done. "Great!" I said, taking a quick swig of my Heineken to hide my carnivorous breath. "Super."
It probably shouldn't be so surprising that after having eaten meat for thirty-two years, I might unconsciously revert every now and then. A few days before the pizza, I caught myself picking up a piece of bacon from the pile my mother had just fried. I was one finger-release away from popping it in my mouth by pure habit. Something I've done since I was tall enough to reach the kitchen counter: scavenge on my mother's scrumptious dinner preparations while keeping her company in the kitchen. In that instance, I put the bacon down - but I secretly wished I'd realized what I'd done after eating it, not before.
Other than these two instances, I can't say I've missed meat all that much. Even during Nicholas Kristof's beloved "barbeque season." It remains a decision I feel good about every single day. Which is how I know it's the right decision. And how I quickly overcome any lingering longings.
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