By Ezra Dyer | The Improper Bostonian

During the course of my life, I’ve known plenty of vegetarians. And while some of them fit neatly into my vegetarian mood board—which also includes pictures of Cambridge and hot yoga—others don’t. For instance, one vegetarian friend of mine is big into drag racing and has a sweet Camaro. When I learned he doesn’t eat meat, I said, “The Venn diagram overlap of drag racers and vegetarians must be basically you.” He replied that I’d be surprised. And I’m sure I would be. But not as much as I was about a year ago when my wife, Heather, announced she was going vegetarian. Which meant, for all practical purposes, so was I. What am I going to do, make my own separate dinner every night? Even Wade Boggs doesn’t love chicken that much.

There are a lot of reasons why people forsake meat. The whole idea of what meat is, and how it arrives on your plate, is totally gross and disturbing if you stop to ponder it, which is why I don’t. But I think Heather’s motivations are mainly personal, given that her dietary switch seemed to coincide with the appearance of a pro-veggie book called How Not To Die on her bedside table. I haven’t read it, mostly because I resent the threat implied by the title. If I’m going to let a book scare me, it’s going to have demented clowns in it, OK? And, besides, anyone buying that book has managed to not die already. Nice try, book!

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