Bubba 2.0
A couple of years ago, I did something that no one who knows me would expect. Certainly, no one thought that I would keep doing it.
I started eating plants. On purpose.
I know. I’m a Bubba. For many decades, I ingested a diet primarily consisting of cheese, pizza, cheeseburgers, mac ‘n’ cheese, pork ‘n’ beans with mac ‘n’ cheese and corn chips (a.k.a. “Dad Chow”), peanut butter cheese sandwiches, cream cheese peanut butter raisin cheese bagels, and Velveeta. I had the taste buds of a picky five year old. I don’t mean one of those, “will eat what they’re told under enough parental pressure” kind of kids, either. No, I’m talking about a tantrum throwing, screaming in the mall, dragged across the floor by his mom, throwing food on the ground, red faced, full meltdown sort of kid. Very picky.
Oh, sure. Over the years there were large wandering herds of people who tried to introduce me to healthier foods. Some tried to sneak it onto my plate so they could catch me “enjoying” something healthy. Amateurs. “It’s zucchini cake. It tastes exactly like chocolate cake.” Clearly, they were insane.
In order to maximize my cheese-eating capacity, I grew increasingly sedentary. No sense wasting valuable cheese-engorging energy on something frivolous like “walking”, “aerobic activity” or “getting off of the couch.”
You can imagine my surprise when I got fatter. Just because I like to eat my own weight in pizza, that’s no excuse for saddling me with extra tonnage. With the extra mass came a number of other health issues.
I saw some videos online that talked about the science behind a plant-based diet. Over a few days, I (grudgingly) recognized the validity of a “whole food plant-based” diet. I decided to “try it for a while.” A month went by and my family and I chose to have a special meal with some of our old favorites with the understanding that one single meal wouldn’t derail what we had started. I chose a large serving of a thick and creamy Fettucine Alfredo. Not long thereafter, I was as sick as a dog. I’m not talking about one of those cute, fluffy pups who star in video clips, do tricks and cuddle incessantly. No, I’m talking about a rabid, baby-eating Dingo, with radiation burns from a nuclear explosion, Cujo-fangs, glowing red eyes, and acid drool. I was sick.
Since then, I’ve never had a craving for cheese or dairy/meat products. I dropped 130 pounds over the course of a couple of years and I felt much better. I’m walking after meals (on purpose) and my lab results are great.
Don’t worry. You can’t catch my diet just be reading this post. I have to explain this because most people have an extreme reaction when they hear about it. It’s not the first time people have been ashamed to be associated with me and it probably won’t be the last. I just wanted to put your minds at ease. You can eat whatever you want and I’ll keep my food to myself. Really, you can stop crying. My food isn’t going to force it’s way into your mouth. Okay, go ahead and finish your tantrum. I’ll be over here when you’re done.
Yes, I’m still a Bubba. I may not eat the same food or threaten the structural integrity of the bathroom scale, but I’m still the same person. I feel better and I have a better chance of sticking around longer.
Sorry, I didn’t mean to trigger another crying fit. Don’t you have a mom who can drag you through the mall?
