One Less Vegetarian to Worry About

So I'm riding the A-train toward midtown to catch an exhibit of 17th century Spanish gnome art. Not just any Spanish gnome art exhibit, but the world's largest. Seven pieces, including Francisco Del Marco Vasquez's 1644 masterpiece, "Gnomo que Come la Calabaza de Butternut " (Gnome Eating Butternut Squash). Suddenly, I look up from my shoelaces and catch the gaze of one of the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in the last 15 minutes. Her eyes were razor-blue. Her skin was alabaster. Her hair was like the chocolate, only hairier. In her hands, behind her can of mace, I noticed a brochure for the very same gnome art exhibit.

I had only met a handful of women who appreciated this unusual art movement, and most of them had recently changed their phone numbers. So I had to make my move. As I attempt to walk toward her, the thick, tacky concoction of Diet Pepsi and bodily fluids covering the train floor prevented me from lifting my feet. So I remove my shoes. Two steps later, I've removed my socks.We spent the next four hours discussing the virtues of Spanish gnome art, shopping for new shoes and socks, and waxing philosophical about such heady subjects as freedom, justice and lasik surgery. With the exception of the nickel-sized piece of spinach that was stuck in her teeth the entire time, it was magical.

We connected on many levels. 17 to be exact, if you include the "I hate the designated hitter" level. As the night started to wind down, I told her that I wanted to see her again. Maybe dinner the following night? She then whispered those three words that men dread when they first meet a woman (if you consider a contraction one word, of course). "I'm a vegetarian". Crap. Forgot to check compatibility on that level.

And she wasn't the "chicken eating" kind of vegetarian. Or the fish eating kind. Straight up herbivore. You know what? Nobody's perfect, I told myself. So the next night, I take her to the finest vegetarian establishment in the Meatpacking district, "The Fertile Beansprout". She orders the bean curd soufflé, and I order the cabbage. The conversation flows like wine, and the wine flows like beer. Thank God she drank. Forgot to check that level of compatibility, too. Our date ends with a passionate kiss on her door step. I really wish she hadn't ordered the bean curd soufflé. On my way home, I grab four chili dogs and a slab of ham. Sustenance.

This ritual goes on for three weeks, progressing in intimacy until finally she spends the night at my place. Anticipating this possibility, I stocked the kitchen with oatmeal, organic fruits and various sprout and kale products. The next morning, I prepare a veggie smoothie and loganberry oatmeal for her, and bacon and eggs for me. The aroma of an all-meat breakfast made her open up about her dietary choices.

She was an omnivore until college when she slowly gave up meat for health reasons. First red meat. Then white meat. Then all colors of meat. Then dairy. Then fish, primarily because the 1978 classic horror movie, “Piranha” had given her nightmares. It had been nine years since any meat product passed through her lips.After breakfast, she had to return to her place to feed her roommate's pet chinchilla. As I leaned in for a kiss, I realized that I might have still had a little bacon stuck in my tooth. I almost pulled away for fear of offending her, or accidentally breaking her nine-year streak of not ingesting meat products. Too late. She quickly pulled my face toward hers with soap opera gusto. We kissed passionately for minutes that led to hours. Meanwhile, a chinchilla was starving across town.

As our relationship progressed, we would alternate between spending nights at her place and mine. Each morning, she would eat her grains and I would eat bacon and eggs. She even stocked her fridge with bacon and eggs on my behalf, bless her malnourished little heart. And after breakfast each morning, we would inevitably have another go at waxing the freight train. Greasing the hamster. Powerwashing the porch floor.

Then things started to get a little weird. We would come home after a night on the town and she would light some candles, put on some Barry Manilow and start cooking bacon for me. She would insist that I have a few slices before we would make love. At first I didn't mind. I mean, c'mon. Who doesn't like a little bacon before romping?

But one particular night, I was a little queasy from all of the kelp and tequila I had consumed earlier. I passed on the bacon, which did not go over well. I spent that night on the couch. It was then I realized that it wasn't me she wanted. It was the taste of bacon on my pouty, but firm lips. So I began to refuse her bacon offerings and slowly our relationship deteriorated. Two weeks later, I found my toothbrush, deodorant, "Rambo" DVD and nose-hair clippers on her front stoop packed in the kemp knapsack I had given her on our one-month anniversary. Inside was a note.

"Dear Angus,I'm sorry that things ended this way. You're a good man with incredibly strong abs and remarkably good teeth for someone of Scottish decent. But I've changed over the past two months and felt that it was unfair to string you along. I hope you understand. Take care of yourself, and your abs.P.S. If you wouldn't mind passing along your bok choy-ka-bobs recipe, I'd appreciate it."

It wasn't me she fell in love with. It was the bacon. It was a hard lesson to learn, but a valuable one.Three weeks later, I was strolling through Gramercy Park heading to hear my favorite Peruvian flute band's Nirvana tribute when I saw her in the window of a restaurant. She sat at her table alone with a cup of milk and a plateful of bacon. Her pale, bony fingers were cramming three, maybe five slices into her mouth. Her eyes met mine and her face contorted into a brief look of embarrassment. She then turned back to her plate. The shame quickly transformed into the look of a ravenous dog who just discovered Captain Crunch with Crunch Berries in his food bowl.And that was the last time I saw her.

As I walked away, I thought to myself "Sure she broke my heart. But that's one less vegetarian we need to worry about, lads."