Photo by Scott Murry | @hotdogtaco
This is going to be a bit preachy, so buckle your belt if you can stretch it around that monster truck tire mid-section of yours. It’s the story of how my best friend died in my house one year ago, and how I decided soon after that my life needed a change. Instead of giving up booze or black market substances–pleasures I indulge in relative moderation, at least compared to musicians and ER doctors–I sacrificed meat, the third albatross dragging my fledgling health through the sewer. I subscribe to a theory that holds all addictions to be equal, from manic shopping to cocaine snorting to gambling. As such, determined to purge my life of one toxic influence I routinely seek for a cheap dopamine boost, I decided to keep beer and weed in my diet, and sever the saltiest fixation in my repertoire.
Before I continue, it may be important to note some background about how I arrived at my lowest, fattest, gassiest point where I was capable of housing taco 10-packs in a single bound with a sugary bucket in my cup holster and a burger binge around the corner. I’ve never rolled with a healthy crowd. Since my early high school years, I’ve surrounded myself with bong-toking booze hounds, the type to sniff or smoke anything that promises a high. Even most of my athletic chums were degenerates, never turning down a pregame blast or some victory grass. As for me, I inhaled more cans of Dust-Off as a teen than most laptop repairmen will deploy in a lifetime. For a few months between high school and college, I took to abusing something called “glass,” which made blood rush and drain in every direction–across your right and left brains, through your nose into the baggie, and so on.
But enough about my cliché youth. After my closest friend since childhood succumbed to a perfect storm of gluttonous savagery, I made a final trip to Taco Bell about one year ago this week. Chasing chalupas with a range of cheesy favorites, I gorged on a last supper for the ages, fat vat of Dr. Pepper and all. There were no tears, but I remember cringing as carnivorous thoughts of smoked and cured provisions danced around my dome. A few weeks went by, and it came as a surprise when I realized I had managed to abstain from eating meat without much pain or effort. Before I knew it, months had passed by the time I stepped onto a scale at my doctor’s and discovered I lost more than 30 pounds without a diet or an eating disorder. I always thought my only chance of shedding that much weight was to chop off an arm.
Here’s the part you’ve heard before … In addition to shedding most of the gut and flab I’ve had since my first year of college, I feel like a new person. No matter how wasted I get, I’m up before my alarm clock. No matter how much pot I smoke, I’ve no need for naps. That’s not to say I haven’t fallen off the meat wagon a few times; last month, in a blackout stupor in Manhattan, I hit the Carnegie Deli for a late-night snack, and polished a pound of pastrami that put me in the Amtrak bathroom for my whole ride back to Boston. I also slipped once while on assignment for the Dig in Saugus, where I munched one of the famous lamb tips at Santarpio’s, and more recently at Christmas dinner. Otherwise, I’ve been all tofu and noodles, some fish, joys like that. I still eat cheese like it’s an infant and I’m Karl Rove.
Though I grub a lot of pie and sweets, the no-meat thing is no cake walk. Fast food is more or less out of the question, as is traveling to any of the flyover states. You’ll have to cook for yourself on that upcoming Montana trip. It’s also hard to return to meat; I’ve never fallen for opiates, but I imagine that the toilet session I endured after ravaging the Christmas turkey is comparable to heroin withdrawal. Frankly, I don’t care very much about how everybody else feels and how regular their bowel movements are. I just wanted to tell my story, because if there’s one thing more rewarding than feeling better than you have in years, it’s rubbing it in all the fat and frowning faces ogling your beautiful lean ass.