Green Envy

Of course I count among the steak-and-martini types that think of vegetarians not as people who have made a deliberate choice, but as people who were born weak. Were we walking in the street with our vegetarian friend and he or she were to be cherry-picked by a roaming coyote, we would shrug and continue on, thinking "Well, it was always a liability, Marjorie's weak constitution." That Marjorie was a Greco-roman mat wrestler with a love of animals would not matter. She was anemic, weak, while we steak-and-martini breed, arteries wheezing, left arm numb, cock-eyed on Scotch, consider it inevitable that we outlive Marjorie's kind.

That said, I'm starting to have vegetarian fantasies. And no, not about a celery stalk and a plum tomato getting dirty in the frigidaire, I mean fantasies about ME. FOREGOING MEAT. I envision pounds falling off my body like Alpine snow sheets in April, my complexion glowing like a saint's, energy up, hair down, bra off, drinkin' smoothies, smokin' stogies rolled in strips of my own linen palazzo pants...

Oh my God, I figured it out: I just want a girlfriend.