i’m too much of a doormat to be vegetarian

how far i’ll go to avoid being a problem

I dig my nails into the palm of my hand, nervously playing with my teeny-tiny diamond pendant as I try not to vomit in front of nearly 1,000 people. The purple, lit-up centerpiece of the table glows, pulsing in rhythm with my increasingly rapid breaths. I stare down at the plate in front of me: deliciously seasoned green beans (not the kind from a can), caramelized onions (which happen to be a personal favorite), and mashed potatoes (incredibly creamy and seasoned to perfection). North of my large plate is its tinier counterpart, hosting a piece of decadent cheesecake adorned with raspberries and whipped cream.

Enter my tormentor: the main course.

A large, unidentifiable slab of meat sits in the middle of my plate, the grilled skin grotesquely peeling off by its own volition. My eyes dart around the table. My colleagues are eagerly digging in. I recall a conversation I had with one of them just a few weeks prior:

“You’re not one of those, those…” my associate paused as though his next word was an offensive slur, “vegetarians?” His tone was garnished with palpable disgust.

“No,” I said plainly, a blank smile infiltrating my expression, “certainly not.”

This wasn’t technically a lie. I will enjoy a chicken salad on occasion, and I have a few fond memories of summers spent with my family as they cooked burgers on the grill. But, for the most part, I would diagnose myself as meat-avoidant for three reasons:

1. Ever since I watched the documentary “Food, Inc.” in middle school, I have been absolutely devastated by the unethical process of getting meat from farm to plate. PETA, while egregiously unethical, has no doubt added to my guilt as well. I am morally – and, I admit, sometimes hypocritically – opposed to the consumption of animals that had to die for my meal.
2. I have lifelong issues with unmedicated OCD, which means I frequently become convinced that the well-done beef or pork in my mouth is really rotting flesh. I often cringe as I feel the maggots crawling around in my tummy. Nobody in my social circle would be surprised at the prospect of holding my hair back while I kneel before the toilet during one of these episodes.
3. Even on a good day for my mental health, I’m not particularly impressed by the flavor profiles of meat. No judgement to anyone who enjoys it, as one’s diet is an incredibly personal decision, but I just never find myself excited about the so-called luxuries of a sirloin steak. If I want to celebrate, I’m more of a pasta-and-wine girl. I love a veggie taco. I get giddy over egg salad. Simply put, it’s just not my taste.

Growing up, my mother would always stand at the kitchen island and chat with me as she prepared dinner. It was our little ritual – every day, I’d pull up a chair and she’d turn up the radio and we’d have a yap-fest while she cooked. If she happened to be making the aforementioned chicken salad that I surprisingly enjoy, our daily hangout would be prefaced with a warning to avert my eyes. If I saw the raw meat being prepared, my appetite would inevitably disappear. Once she served the meal, I simply pretended it was tofu for my own sanity.

When I moved into my own apartment six months ago, I became the only chef in my life, meaning my mother wasn’t around to prepare the meat. This is when I decided to stop pretending to eat tofu, and actually stocked my fridge with the sopping bricks. I haven’t looked back since.

When I told my coworker that I wasn’t a vegetarian, honesty to the fact that I have a history of consuming meat once in a blue moon was not my motivation. I just didn’t want to be judged, which is the same reason I now find myself in a state of horrified shock as I stare at the meal before me. Right before our food came out, I felt both confident and thrilled – today marks my first attendance to a lavish event that cements the success of my career thus far. It seems like the event organizers thought of just about everything, from the gorgeously decorated conference room to the never-ending supply of coffee and alcohol at each table. For an event with hundreds and hundreds of attendees, they managed to greet each guest with a personal touch that left us all feeling appreciated…yet, somehow, they failed to consider that statistically, about 20% of the room would not identify as carnivores.

There was no box to check on the invitation indicating dietary preferences. There was no menu handed out upon arrival; everyone in the room was expected to eat the same meal, which had not been previously disclosed. Now, I know what you’re thinking: why can’t I just skip the meat and grab my own food after the event if I still feel hungry? Surely all of the delicious side dishes should be enough to sustain me through these next few hours of camaraderie and elbow-rubbing.

My social anxiety burns as I remember saying I am certainly not a vegetarian. How can I explain it if I eat around the mystery meat? The colleague I told my not-quite-lie to nudges me,

“Eat, eat! Everything is delicious.”

My face betrays me. That damned blank, lobotomized smile makes a grand reappearance. I eat my green beans. I eat my mashed potatoes. I eat my onions. I consider saying I’m too full to go on, but everyone else has already cleared their plates and moved on to cake. Considering the prestigiousness of being invited to attend this luncheon, it feels like it would be incredibly rude to be the only person who does not finish their meal. The price my company paid for my seat doesn’t make this any easier.

I grimace as I succumb to my self-imposed-but-not-really stress. I cut into the cold meat. I do my very best to ignore the maggots.

When I’m done, I’m far too nauseous for cake.