“I want to be inside you! I promise it will feel good.”

“I would eat that,” said my boyfriend, P, nodding over at my vegan burger. We were seated in a Five Guys, eating parallel meals. On our way to a Justice show at Hammerstein Ballroom, we needed something quick. Half cranky from hunger, half rushed, we couldn’t decide on a place that was both vegan and omni friendly. So I grabbed take out from the Loving Hut and met him across the street at the Five Guys, where he was getting meaty. Loving Hut is a chain, and there is some controversy around it’s whacky Taiwanese founder, so it’s not always my first choice, especially when I’m in a city as abuzz with vegan choices as New York. But whatever, that’s a rant for another day.

Now normally, my guy is more than happy to eat vegan with me. But we had just ran a Tough Mudder (cough, humblebrag) and he wasn’t interested in the Loving Hut. When I pointed to the vegan spot, he was probably thinking raw salads. Despite the fact he has seen me scarf down five slices of vegan pizza in one sitting, he opted out because he “wanted something filling.”

Something filling? How is my “crispy burger”—piled with homemade pickles, avocado, lettuce and tomato on a wheat bun—not filling?

What he had meant was something heavy. Something greasy. Although we were eating similar meals, you could see the difference before you even opened the brown take-out bags. His was absolutely spotty with grease. Mine was shine-free. Even though it was pan fried, it was not overly greasy, and served up with a nice green salad, I knew it would leave me feeling full but still energetic—critical, as we were on our way to a freakin’ electronic show, and who wants to be gassy and bloated while they fist pump? I pointed this out, and it got us on the subject of eating for energy.

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