A Veggie Tale

I don’t know why I got to 34 years of age and this is a brand new discovery.

I like vegetables.

I just finished my umpteenth salad for lunch. At the outset I sometimes begrudge the monotony. But then I sit in front of the computer, skulking in front of Facebook updates, and I realize the salad is pretty darn good. Fresh cucumbers from my farm share. Peppers, carrots, grape tomatoes, black beans, corn, a little bit of cheese and a little bit of Newman’s Own dressing (got to support the philanthropy). And it’s quite a delicious combination. Not making me begrudge the lack of starch or meat.

It makes me feel good, even on this sluggish humid Monday. I don’t get the post lunch food coma with a salad like this. I think maybe I can handle a walk in the sultry air tonight. My body feels a little more alive without having to fight toxic elements. Of course it does. No major revelation of fact there.

It’s not that I didn’t know these things. It’s not like I won’t be given temptation to forget them. Social functions where hors d’oeuvres and platters abound. The moon slipping into that phase of the sky when Chinese food and chocolate are the most delicious distractions from femininity. When my frightened soul exhumes demons of self-doubt. It’s easy to not think about the obvious then. That’s the point, isn’t it? To be mindless about what I put into my body.

It’s partly age. It’s partly a desire to be true to the book (or books as the case may inevitably be) that I’m writing. It’s mostly that I shifted my eyes and see the world in a different light right now. I see the socioeconomic, political aberration that the food industry has become. And my blue state, leftist, socialist crazy feels a need to … just take heed and live a way before I tell someone else that’s how they should live.

Whatever. At the end of the day, it just comes down to the fact that I like vegetables. That’s where it begins, where it ends, and hopefully (barring a day or two when the moon is in Aquarius) where it is.