My Very Undramatic Month Without Meat

And why it matters

I opened the fridge today and spotted some leftover chicken. I was hungry. So I checked the calendar and, sure enough, I’d just finished 30 days without eating meat. The chicken tasted like, well… salt, garlic and oregano. It wasn’t any better than the protein-packed black bean veggie burgers I’ve been making from scratch for oh, maybe a buck or two apiece, and enjoying very much.

My month without meat, a simple commitment made to self and announced to Facebook friends, was utterly undramatic. I didn’t lose weight. My blood pressure didn’t change. I don’t feel any better. I don’t feel any worse. And I can still do my age in push-ups.

Anecdotes like this prove nothing, of course. For all I know, my hemoglobin levels are all messed up and my fingernails will fall off next week. Or I could die tomorrow from meat withdrawal syndrome.

But here’s one big fat fact that came from the experiment: I didn’t miss the meat.

I’m not a vegetarian. I’ve eaten fish, chicken or beef daily all my life. I love a good barbecued steak. I’ll probably have another before too long. But I’m not rushing out to stock up on meat right now because, I’ve found, it’s not that big a deal. It’s just what I was used to.