Who Even Am I?

Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.

Where we are: About the time this lands in your email, Lee and I will be crossing the Arctic Circle, in a feat of mind-bending whiplash. Last week: Bangkok. This week: Norway. Somebody pinch me.

Who Even Am I—An Essay in Two Parts

Part One, the Story

For the first nine years of our travels, I generally called myself a vegetarian. Not in a militant, all-life-is-sacred kind of way, but in an embarrassingly-picky-eater kind of way. Technically, I suppose I was more of a flexitarian with commitment issues, but ‘vegetarian’ was easier to say than ‘I don’t eat meat except for shrimp, lobster, king crab, and jamón ibérico when I’m in Spain.’ I don’t like admitting that I have an immature palate, okay?

But lately, things have shifted. My body has traitorously decided that lentils and chickpeas aren’t cutting it anymore; my blood sugar has gotten out of whack, and the solution is apparently chicken, according to the glucose monitor I’ve been wearing. I’ve had to rearrange my personal food pyramid—suddenly protein isn’t just for carnivores and CrossFit bros. My attempts to consume more protein have left me with no choice but to abandon my so-called vegetarian ways.

At fifty-seven, there’s a lot of personal history baked into the label you’ve worn for decades. Being a vegetarian wasn’t just a diet—it was part of my identity. It came up in conversations, shaped what I served guests, and gave me an easy way to opt out of mystery meats at family dinners. Over time, it settled into a kind of shorthand for who I was: someone who cared about my health and the environment, maybe a little bit smug, but harmlessly so.

That’s not an easy label to let go of, and it’s still tripping me up: without thinking, I’ll catch myself telling a waiter, ‘I’m vegetarian,’ while scanning the menu for the rotisserie chicken. I keep having this strange feeling of disorientation, like I’m watching someone else place the order: some stranger who has betrayed her younger self and possibly the planet.

I mostly don’t love the chicken (as opposed to jamon iberico, which I truly adore—see what I mean about ‘flexitarian’?) I’m eating it anyway, but at the same time, I’m mourning noodles. I dream about dumplings. Bread, my old reliable comfort food, has been demoted to an occasional, heavily negotiated cameo on the plate. And as much as I try to channel my inner grown-up making health-forward choices, I sometimes whine that I’ve been grounded from the fun food. But if I’m being completely honest, it’s not just the food I miss—it’s the ease, the simplicity, the identity, as ‘flexible’ as it (truthfully) always was.

Change is inevitable, of course. If it weren’t this, it would be something else—gray hairs, reading glasses, the sudden need to stretch before getting out of bed. Everyone goes through it. But somehow, I’d skated past the big reckonings for a while. I hadn’t had to fundamentally revise my identity in any major way, and then—chicken. It sounds absurd, I know. In the grand scheme of things, this is hardly a tragedy. I’m not allergic to sunlight. I’m not giving up speech. I’m just eating more poultry.

Still, it’s discombobulating. You spend decades being a certain kind of person—someone who skips the turkey at Thanksgiving, who navigates barbecues with a smile and a plate of potato salad—and then, suddenly, you’re in China, asking if the chicken is breast meat by pointing at your own boobs and saying ‘breast’ over and over again. I keep waiting to feel like this is normal. Like I’m fully on board with this awkward new protein-forward version of myself. But more often, it feels like I’m auditioning for the role of ‘health-conscious adult,’ hoping no one notices the understudy has taken the stage.

Part Two, the Prequel

Lee and I got off the ship in Trondheim yesterday and went for a walk. Along the way, I mentioned that I hadn’t yet come up with an idea for today’s newsletter.

The man does love a challenge.

He pulled out his phone and started having a quiet little conversation with ChatGPT. I should’ve been paying attention, but I was wrestling with gloves, hat, purse, umbrella, the hood of my jacket—this is why we don’t live in a cold climate. Too much clothing.

Anyway, a few minutes later, he texted me a draft of the above essay. When we got back to the ship, I tweaked it a fair amount: I added in king crab because Norway, and the bit about pointing to my own boobs because how would ChatGPT know that? I deleted several uses of the word ‘smug.’ (Am I smug? Who suggested that word—ChatGPT, or my husband?)

I see the weaknesses of course: it’s a bit repetitive—if I were grading a student essay, I’d tell them to cut it down and follow the through-line more directly. Some of the language is a bit more arch, a bit more twee than I would use. Some of the imagery is heavy-handed.

But from the minute I read it, I knew my essay for today had been written.

By artificial intelligence. Who even am I any more?

Take care,

Lisa

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