OK, to be fair I’m a vegan kind of like I’m a pole vaulter; it’s a lovely thought, and sometimes I even jump a little but I barely get off the ground. Still, the fact that I’m almost a vegan should count toward something. I mean, shouldn’t I be wan and frail? Or at the very least, in my twenties?
I didn’t mean to become a vegetarian, it just kind of happened. Because I tend to eat my way through concrete walls any emotional situation or illness, being vegan/vegetarian turns out to not help me much during times like these. While we think of vegan/vegetarian as healthy and fresh, if you think about it nobody ever got fat on chicken. It’s the spuds, butter, desserts and booze served with the chicken that does them in. And while healthy food may in fact looks like the eggplant dish above, what stress eating looks like to a vegan/vegetarian is this
and this
and, because I suck at vegan, this.
All beige, you’ll notice. Beige – the color of divorcees and carbohydrates everywhere. (My glass-half-full take on my current state of dress it that, while I have been in the same giant black sweat pants and hoodie essentially since October, at least I’m not wearing beige suits, the bastion of divorced, middle-aged woman attire.)
I think when I’m back on my feet, should I be able to stand on my own and without the aid of a crane, I’m going to make my fortune on the next big diet craze tentatively named Eschew Ecru. Dieters will be allowed to eat anything that isn’t beige, which will steer them toward vegetables and fruits. Well, and brownies, but I haven’t worked out all the details yet.