Conversation from lunch yesterday:
Coworker: Was that you I saw driving around in a tiny VW filled with plants?
Me: Yes, are you stalking me?
Coworker: Who are you? That’s the most un-Champagne-like behavior I can think of.
Me: Well, I’m renting my friend’s place until I find a condo to buy, so now that I sort of have my own place I feel like I should fill it up with plants.
Coworker: Yes, but I expect the Champagne I know of to roll down the streets with a dead deer strapped to the hood of her truck, not drive around in a tiny car exploding with plants. I had to do a double take.
I had to explain to him that all bets are off the day I became a vegetarian. There are still days when I think about where I came from and I’m baffled by how I got here. On more than one occasion, when the subject of my carnivorous ways would come up with friends that I haven’t seen since forever, and I mentioned that I’ve stopped eating meat, they would be appalled and accuse me of lying. I would laugh and tell them that there’s no way in hell I would joke about giving up meat.
I loved meat so much back in the days, that I would be very offended if you tried to feed me vegetable and I would shout, “Get that shit away from me,” while trying to stick you with a fork. I was certain that if any green leafy object touched me, it would burn a hole in my skin. In the summer, I would go to the local county fairs, pet the livestock and tell them to grow up big and delicious. I actively thumped my meat-eating bible over every vegetarian’s head.
Because of my shameless love for meat, it would take a good twenty minutes of explaining for my friends to get over the shock of my not eating meat. Even then, they would say, “You’re lying because you’re laughing.” I would reply, “I’m laughing because I still can’t believe the words that are coming from my mouth. I’ve become my own idea of a bad joke gone wrong.”
I’ve been thinking lately that I’m tired of defending my lifestyle swap and reassuring my friends/acquaintances that I haven’t gone sick in the head and I realize there’s an obvious solution to all this. I need to grow a goatee. I think the moment I grow a goatee, people will just know that I’m in my evil twin mode. The beauty of the goatee is that if there’s a day when I decide to switch back to my earth destroying, cow chomping ways, I can just shave off the goatee and be my old self with no explanation needed. I’ve never grown a goatee, so I’m not sure how complicated it might be, but I’m sure there’s a programming manual out there that can instruct me on the matter and I’m betting I’ll look dashing with a goatee.