Early Vegetarian Days

My first vegetarian foray, an ode to vanity, took place freshman year of college.
I’d packed my favorite thrift store jeans, locked the door on my shabby, furnished single room apartment, and stepped into the cloistered, rarified atmosphere of a private school campus. Once in my room, I took another look at my work-study assignment: Main Cafeteria, and felt sick. A greasy face and hairnet would not improve my social life.

By Monday morning I’d hatched a plan.

“I can’t be around meat. I won’t touch it,” I told the woman in charge of listening to student job complaints.
I went further.
“I’m ethically opposed to it. I’ve been vegetarian for years. I’ve already checked with the cafeteria; there are no jobs that don’t involve contact with meat.”

She looked weary, sighed, and said she’d be in touch. Two days later I was reassigned to develop negatives of histoplasmosis cells in a city hospital dark room.

My lie haunted me. Convinced that I was being watched, I avoided looking at the hamburgers as I passed through the cafeteria line and left the Bacos off my salad. Thank god, I hadn’t told them I was vegan. Three months later I abandoned all caution and ate a chicken sandwich. From there on out, it was meat and gravy.