The Vegetarian Faces the Mirror

My naked reflection stared back: “Face it,” she glared. “You’re fat. Inside, you look just like that meat you won’t eat, with yellow or white greasy stuff embedded in your muscles and vessels.” “Thank’s for that repellant visual,” I mumble, as I cocoon myself in the towel. The cruel reality is that I’ve become a fat, miserable vegetarian.

I’ve complained for months about my weight, while I sneak another biscotti like a closet alcoholic. Compared to the Average American, I look small. But there are onerous drum beats compelling me to wake up:

1. My undies have become an abdominal garrote
2. My bra is so tight I can’t deep breathe
3. My knees creak, groan, and shoot pain when I climb stairs
4. I’m perpetually fatigued
5. And …I’m experiencing some unpleasant female miseries best left unsaid

Today, I’m declaring war…on myself. Like any war, a multi-pronged offensive is in order. Eliminate stress eating. Learn how to sleep. Exercise and …Google for a miraculous elixir that will reverse the metabolic penalty of aging. How hard is that? Overwhelmingly hard. I’m discouraged. I’m guilt-ridden. Ashamed. I swore I’d never get this way again and yet, here I am.

OK, so I have to fight on many fronts. But I can’t attack every one at once. My stress would skyrocket, then I’d eat more, my stress would soar, then I’d eat even more …you see how that works? So, I’m starting with nutrition, betting it will have the most impact on my well-being.

(My drug of choice)

Work is an eater’s minefield. Home to stressed nurses, we continually display heaps of salty/fatty/sweet comfort food. I grab whatever fits my hand. None of it is healthy. I often skip lunch. At dinner, I rely on high fat protein sources (luscious full fat cheese …eggs …nut butter) or dark chocolate. I’m addicted to processed, poor quality vegetarian food. I need to detox. And I dread it.

Last week I started eating my way through the pantry and fridge, saying a fond, tearful farewell to the soon-to-be forbidden foods. I have a deadline, April 2, when the next 21-day Vegan Kickstart Program begins. I signed up. I have the app. I’m cleansing my mind to prepare for the challenge. I can do this! (I hope).

This weekend I shopped. I read labels. It made my head hurt. Dairy and eggs are embedded in everything, often as unpronounceable chemical additives. This is going to be harder than I imagined. I’ll have to cook. And plan. Oh dear.

Surely I can manage 21 days of this. That’s not forever. I don’t intend to become a full-time vegan. I want to lose weight and gain energy. Hopefully, eating plant-based will feel less daunting. At the least, I’ll Kickstart my health again. But the true test is in 3 months. On my 64th birthday, I want to take a deep breath, face the mirror, and get a well-earned “atta girl” from the face staring back.