Yes, Virginia, I am a vegetarian.

You know what’s hard? Yoga.

You know what’s harder than that? Trying to explain yoga to your precious family of aging Southern Baptists.

Because if it’s not explicitly typed in the King James version of the Holy Bible then it’s most likely of the devil, who probably created yoga to trick Christians into performing exercises that would get them into positions they couldn’t get out of, thus holding them in place so he could catch them.

But, yoga is a later issue.

First, we have to address a more pressing item, though there are several items overall, not the least of which is the fact that my hair has suddenly gone from brown to a bronze-red, due to a slight miscalculation of coloring when I tried to turn it fully blonde. For me to get bored, you see, is a dangerous mistake.

One my family, specifically U.L., prays constantly about.

So, last Sunday, U.L. asked me how I’d been doing, all the while staring at my mane of flame. I did a fair amount of traveling over this past holiday and hadn’t been “at home” as much as I usually am.

Some of that, though, was by choice. We’re still rebuilding the burned bridge from several months back when I finally had to break down and confess to my family that I was indeed a vegetarian.

And that’s what I’m writing about today: vegetarianism.

To say that I was a vegetarian was as shocking a statement to make as saying, “I’m gay,” or worse yet, “I’m moving my letter to the Episcopal church.”

I plead the fifth on both, for the time being because they pale in comparison to what I actually said, which was, “Yes, Virginia, I am a Vegetarian.” (Virginia is GamVa’s real name, by the way).

To admit that I was no longer eating meat was tantamount to saying I only read the short chapters in the Bible, or that I think the Flood was really God’s tears about the danger of having termites on board the Ark.

My family is rather self-sufficient. We grow (and certainly used to, back in the day) most, if not all, our own vegetables. We have a good bit of land, and we share what we grow with our neighbors, because that’s in the Bible, and we can what’s left over so we have homegrown vegetables in the winter, etc. etc.

On top of this, we also have our own private cattle farm. Which means fresh, organic meat. And when various hunting seasons start, we send out our gentle menfolk to kill for the sake of eating. We keep in stock fresh deer meat, and have been known to wrangle up a real, bona fide turkey for Thanksgiving.

All of which I, for many years, enjoyed. I do not deny this: I grew up with meat, and I liked it.

But, then, I had a horrible, disgusting dream about eating meat which was so pervasive that it forced me into becoming a vegetarian, and to this day, I honor it. I will actually celebrate my tenth month anniversary (which is almost as long as any relationship I’ve ever had) as a veg-head, next Sunday.

I don’t have anything big planned, other than an argument.

Because that’s what it’s become. Every Sunday. An argument.

Is this what lifelong veg-heads have had to endure? Every week, I have to defend the fact that I choose not to eat meat to my family. I have never known such judgment as I’ve encountered since becoming 100% veggie-friendly.

I have been castigated about everything, and not just by my family. They’re biggest gripe really is the meat part, if you will. Because Nana cooks so much of it, each week.  Very meat-centric.

Now, every sniffle I have, every little bitty cough, and their immediate diagnosis is, “Well, if you ate meat…”

I had no idea that meat was such a cure-all. The next time U.L. gets the flu, I’ll see to it that he gets a nice hot bowl of chicken fried steak.

I mean, it’s not that I disagree entirely: I think all food is cyclically healthy, in its own way, but there are substitutions…good, FDA-approved substitutions.

And, my god, the way we eat, each week, I’m surprised none of us are dead, yet.

But, the judgment from others, is what’s staggering. I’ve been looked up and down and chastised for my “vegetarianism” while I seem to have no trouble “wearing leather gloves.”

They were a gift, by the way.

People have joked about what shoes I’m wearing, what materials my clothes are made of, and it’s not just animal-based products either. There is no end in sight to the scope of judgment I’ve shouldered, all in good humor: plastics, woods, and…well, OK, my list has an end, but that’s just because I have no political agenda about the “cause.” So, I don’t keep a tally of what’s “in” and “out” where “green” is concerned.

It has, still, however, brought a lot to light.

Am I just caving into a trend with my dietary habits? Am I really a true vegetarian? (I know I can’t be vegan because I could never do without cheese, and though tapioca is a fun substitute, it just doesn’t do it for me).

Or is doing even a little good, just not good enough? Now, I’m starting to question everything I touch, buy, or put in my mouth, on my face, on my body, near an elbow, you name it…I worry about it.

I recently returned from NYC, and I made sure that every purchase of mine was animal-, environment-, and judgment-free. From my shoes, to my shirts, to the foods I ate. And at quite a cost.

The (insert noun here)-free world is not a cheap one. Which sometimes smells a little like a conspiracy, doesn’t it?

What started out as such a simple way to make the world a little bit better has quickly escalated into an addiction, and one with a price tag.

Which brings me to two points: 1) We must be doing something wrong in this country because hundreds of other countries live this way and don’t go broke doing it, and 2) U.L.’s argument that what I’m doing is somehow “wrong” is testament to what this current culture has become: Lost.

Because in a sense, the way I’m living now, the way I’m eating and thinking about eating is no different than the way U.L. grew up (or me, for the most part). They farmed everything themselves, they grew fresh vegetables, they milked cows, they created their own health.

And took pride in it.

But, somehow, because what “was” has now fallen into the hands  of what “is” (meaning people who use words like yoga as well as people who are part of the corporate-farming network), it has become a dirty thing, a nasty deed, practically ungodly.

However, I hold firm because I still believe that a journey of a thousand miles begins with just one step…and what matters is that you take that step, either way: whether you’re vegetarian, pescatarian, or Presbyterian.

So…you know, just hush up and start walking, already.

A thousand miles is a long, long way to go.

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