Two days ago, I said to my husband, “I’m thinking of going flexitarian.”
He said, “Huh? Flexitarian?”
“You know,” I said. “Sort of vegetarian. Not totally vegetarian. But kind of vegetarian.”
“Explain,” he said.
“Well, generally we won’t eat meat. But we won’t never eat meat. Just super rarely.”
My meat-loving husband didn’t look super happy about his. “Like when would we eat meat?”
“Thanksgiving, for instance. I could never go without my Thanksgiving turkey!”
He rolled his eyes and walked off.
This morning I went for a run. Through my suburban, not terribly rural neighboring town. And I encountered these:
Why are they blurry and far away? Because I was sure they were about to attack me, all alone, on the street, as thoughts of Thanksgiving danced in my mind while I tried to get past them.
Some might say this is a sign that I should give up even the “flex” part and just go “vegetarian.” I choose to think of it as some divine providence saying, “Hey, no worries! There are plenty of turkeys. Enjoy and Thanksgiving yourself out!”