Nashville, We Have A Problem
Making the transition to a plant-based diet is not for the unimaginative or unadventurous. If anything, there is an element of being willing to try new things and most of all, the experimentation that comes with changing the way one eats. I like to say it is that moment when we go from unaware consumers to gastronauts.
Of course this doesn't mean we can't drift off-course. It happens, sometimes by design, sometimes we allow circumstances to get the best of us and we've inflicted damage on the progress we've worked so hard to achieve. It happened to me this past weekend. What started as a quick trip to scope out possible sources for a story turned into an impulse drive to Dickson, Tennessee only to find it had morphed from a slightly sleepy, charming place to East Nashville 2.0. While my mother played Spot-The-Hipster, I tried to get the heck out of there without hitting anyone or getting hit by people who knew where they were going.
By the time we got back to our own suburb, my mother's plans to go somewhere to eat rather than me going home and cooking seemed like a real long shot. Saturday evening at any retail-oriented strip in Nashville would entail long waits and possible bad manners. I suggested getting something light and low on the food chain from the deli section of our local store that begins with P that rhymes with T that stands for Trouble. By the time we got there, pickins were slim. The unbreaded wings were not only picked over, the boxes were sitting open and two of the three were suspiciously light. Someone had eaten supper right there at the counter! They had a row of rather sad looking Mojo roasted chickens. Then again, all Mojo chickens are sad chickens. There was one box of fried chicken.
Here's the thing. I love fried chicken. In fact, if someone told me I could only have one meat simulacra for the rest of my life, it would be Beyond Tenders (which are also not very good for me, but that's another story.) So I grabbed the last box of fried chicken and swore it would be the last time I ever ate it.
That part turned out to be true.
Here's what happened when I broke my resolve about healthier eating and had a piece of my second favorite fried chicken. I tasted...salt. The second bite had to be better. It was difficult to discern any other flavor. It was all salt with a chaser of grease. But wait! There's more! Nausea set in roughly a half-hour after supper followed by headaches and explosive diarrhea. This lasted for the rest of the weekend. All of that was exactly as charming as it sounds. As I write this, my abdomen is still rumbling.
No, it was not worth it. This brief drift away from my objectives caused me to feel less like a brave gastronaut and more like some tourist in Huntsville on The Vomit Comet. I undid some of the hard work I put in to getting better. I made myself miserable. My mother asked me if I was getting back on my diet. The short answer is I messed up and got back on track immediately. The best answer is a little more complicated.
I am not on a diet. I am changing the way I eat and ultimately the way I live. Unlike the goal-based regimen of a diet, this is a change that will last for life if I'm smart about it. That doesn't mean I don't have goals. They're less about numbers and more about feeling better and doing better. You know? As awful as this weekend was, it is actually nice to know my body can tell me no when I do something bad to it. I am so much more at peace when I'm doing the right thing and this includes eating right.
As for the numbers, if you really, really need to know, I lost 22 pounds so far this month. Another milestone is not too far off.
July 23, 2023
Of course this doesn't mean we can't drift off-course. It happens, sometimes by design, sometimes we allow circumstances to get the best of us and we've inflicted damage on the progress we've worked so hard to achieve. It happened to me this past weekend. What started as a quick trip to scope out possible sources for a story turned into an impulse drive to Dickson, Tennessee only to find it had morphed from a slightly sleepy, charming place to East Nashville 2.0. While my mother played Spot-The-Hipster, I tried to get the heck out of there without hitting anyone or getting hit by people who knew where they were going.
By the time we got back to our own suburb, my mother's plans to go somewhere to eat rather than me going home and cooking seemed like a real long shot. Saturday evening at any retail-oriented strip in Nashville would entail long waits and possible bad manners. I suggested getting something light and low on the food chain from the deli section of our local store that begins with P that rhymes with T that stands for Trouble. By the time we got there, pickins were slim. The unbreaded wings were not only picked over, the boxes were sitting open and two of the three were suspiciously light. Someone had eaten supper right there at the counter! They had a row of rather sad looking Mojo roasted chickens. Then again, all Mojo chickens are sad chickens. There was one box of fried chicken.
Here's the thing. I love fried chicken. In fact, if someone told me I could only have one meat simulacra for the rest of my life, it would be Beyond Tenders (which are also not very good for me, but that's another story.) So I grabbed the last box of fried chicken and swore it would be the last time I ever ate it.
That part turned out to be true.
Here's what happened when I broke my resolve about healthier eating and had a piece of my second favorite fried chicken. I tasted...salt. The second bite had to be better. It was difficult to discern any other flavor. It was all salt with a chaser of grease. But wait! There's more! Nausea set in roughly a half-hour after supper followed by headaches and explosive diarrhea. This lasted for the rest of the weekend. All of that was exactly as charming as it sounds. As I write this, my abdomen is still rumbling.
No, it was not worth it. This brief drift away from my objectives caused me to feel less like a brave gastronaut and more like some tourist in Huntsville on The Vomit Comet. I undid some of the hard work I put in to getting better. I made myself miserable. My mother asked me if I was getting back on my diet. The short answer is I messed up and got back on track immediately. The best answer is a little more complicated.
I am not on a diet. I am changing the way I eat and ultimately the way I live. Unlike the goal-based regimen of a diet, this is a change that will last for life if I'm smart about it. That doesn't mean I don't have goals. They're less about numbers and more about feeling better and doing better. You know? As awful as this weekend was, it is actually nice to know my body can tell me no when I do something bad to it. I am so much more at peace when I'm doing the right thing and this includes eating right.
As for the numbers, if you really, really need to know, I lost 22 pounds so far this month. Another milestone is not too far off.
July 23, 2023