The Carne Conundrum

A humorous excerpt from America’s tax code:

“It is important to emphasize that IRS estimates of the tax gap are associated with the legal sector of the economy only. Although tax is due on income from whatever source derived, legal or illegal, the tax attributable to income earned from illegal activities is extremely difficult to estimate. Moreover, the government’s interest in pursuing this type of noncompliance is, ultimately, to stop the illegal activity, not to tax it.”

I realize, in putting this up, that I’m losing my mind. First, I thought a section of the tax code was funny. Then, I admitted it. Which reminds of the time I told a roomful of people that my first crush was Peter Jennings. They laughed, but in the way of people who have just realized I might be truly ill. The laugh of denial.

But I have no dignity. Which brings me to my main point: women who have no dignity. Apparently, according to the New York Times, women have now resorted to eating steak in order to lure men into marriage.

The article tells the story of a diehard vegetarian, a skinny woman who once wore a “Meat is Murder” T-shirt. Around the age of 30, depressed that she was socially responsible and yet single, she swallowed her scruples and posted on Match.com that she loved steak. She immediately got asked out. A year of burgers and beef fajitas later, she is engaged. She had her rehearsal dinner in a steakhouse. If she has sons, she plans to name them Chuck and Shank. What if she has girls? Please. Not with all that USDA-approved hormone in her bloodstream.

According to the article, the next red-hot dating tip for women is to start chowing down on burgers. Women who eat beef are unneurotic and don’t have issues with food. They don’t worry about their weight! They’re “guys’ girls,” they play video games, watch sports, shoot Jager, hunt moose and drive sport utility vehicles even though, let’s be honest, the closest they come to ‘sporting utility’ is tossing a basketball in the trunk and forgetting about it! They get misty-eyed over Brian’s Song. And by misty-eyed, I mean, something got in their eyes. That’s all. So shut up, all right?

“Hey guys!” they shout subtly, cutting across the noise and clutter of a crowded bar, “We’re just like you, but with breasts! And vaginas! Best of both worlds, really!”

Ok. I’m done. Clearly, these are not the days when high heels were an excuse to lean on some strong man’s arm. Haha. In fact, why wear high heels at all, except on the off-chance that one encounters a stray bison and needs to stab it and harvest its meat mass?

Now I’m really done.

The reason I’m being so judgmental is because I always secretly admired vegetarians. I believe all those arguments: animals aren’t treated humanely, it’s more sustainable for people to eat veggies now that the population is massive, meat has a lot of fat in it, and it isn’t a primary source of energy.

Considering I’m so thoroughly convinced, why haven’t I converted? Well, let me explain. My parents and grand-parents are all vegetarians. So is my entire extended family (vegetarianism is very common in certain Indian communities). And they’re a royal pain in my ass. I remember once, when I bought lunchmeat to put in a sandwich. My aunt, who was visiting at the time, held out the packet between the tip of her index finger and thumb, like it might bear cooties or some other hideous illness. “Are you going to eat this?” she asked, looking as if she might faint.

Or. When I was four years old, my doctor recommended that I eat an egg everyday. A regular, unfertilized egg. I had to wake up early and do this in secret, because my vegetarian grandmother was living with us. Well, my grandmother came into the kitchen one morning, saw the eggshell on the counter, screeched and refused to eat in our house until the entire kitchen was disinfected.

Or. When my father, who by the way ate meat I saw it happen with my own eyes! converted to vegetarianism and told me he could no longer man the grill at cookouts because he “can’t touch that stuff.”

Or. My other grandmother, who averts her eyes if I ever eat meat because she can’t stand watching me violate my Hindu dharma.

Am I sensitive? Well, I was always a rebellious kid, and my crush on carne only intensified in proportion to everyone else’s aversion to it. So you could say what I really fed on was my delight at pissing my relatives off.

Ignoring any character flaws that admission might reveal, I’ve recently gone one step further. I have all but given up chicken in favor of pork and beef. As a chicken girl, I thought I could regain some of the moral cachet I secretly desired. But the other day, sitting in a substandard Chinese restaurant and savoring the gooey, gummy texture of the no-man’s-meat they referred to as chicken, I thought, “Since when is cardboard the other white meat?”

I finally had to admit it. I love red meat. I can’t resist it. But that doesn’t mean, in a corner of my heart, I’m not a little bit ashamed of myself. That doesn’t mean I don’t keep my feelings hidden. That doesn’t mean, once in a while, I don’t feel like an irresponsible baby animal killer whose veins are filling up with cholesterol.

So you see, when some vegetarian suddenly cops to loving meat simply to get a guy, I feel pretty conflicted. I have a long and contentious personal history of meat-eating. I have heard my relatives condemn it, I have weathered their scorn, I have defended my decisions, I have tried to reform. But in the end, all this did was lead me further down the same damn road.

Try to get a guy with that line, fakers.