I was chased down the sidewalk by a breathless woman.
“You’re the guy who made me vegetarian!” she announced between gasps.
I didn’t know what she was talking about.
It turned out she’d worked as a paralegal, years before, at Sullivan & Cromwell. I didn’t feel guilty about not remembering her. We only toiled together once – a grueling all-nighter preparing for an M&A closing.
We ordered take-out burgers that night, and I opted for a veggie burger. She asked why I wasn’t eating meat. At first I played it down – mumbled something like “don’t feel like it.” Carnivores can grow testy if you fail to consume meat in their presence – they take it as a personal affront. I’ve learned to tread lightly.
But she persisted, with genuine curiosity, so I told her the truth:
“You don’t have to go there – no one’s asking you too,” I said. “But if you do go there, you’ll stop eating meat.”
That was it.
Ever since that night, she told me on the sidewalk, she’d been vegetarian.
All it took was going there – well, having someone tell you there was a “there ” to go to, then making the trip.
No, I’m not going to spell out where “there” is – you know perfectly well and I’m not here to preach. I’m here to talk about consciousness-raising, not vegetarianism. Specifically, consciousness-raising around alcohol.
You know, alcohol – those lambent elixirs stored in gleaming bottles; the all-American can of beer that pops open to seal friendship and inaugurate cherished memories; the cork shooting from a pricey bottle of champagne to harken in merriment and delight.
Yeah. Ethanol. Ethyl alcohol. Let’s tackle the popular mythology surrounding this stuff. We can start with what I call the Maya Angelou rule.
The People's Therapist 