Always interested in maintaining good health with the least amount of actual exertion possible, I began drinking protein shakes a few months ago.
One of our sons-in-law, a combat veteran who works out on a rowing machine and treadmill, lifts weights, runs five miles in scorching heat and freezing cold for fun, often grabs a protein shake to tide him over until dinner since he works from home and rarely has time for lunch.
Because we have so much in common — the part about working from home — I decided to try protein shakes as well. Sure, I could scrape together some leftovers for lunch, but our leftovers have spawned so many aging leftovers, they could chart themselves on ancestry.com.
When I turn to the ‘fridge for lunch, I usually come away with salad. Lettuce, carrots and cucumbers do not have protein.
I need protein. I know this because I hear this and see this all the time in pop-up ads, commercials and messages from extremely fit and well-paid health experts. You know what has protein? Things that moo, oink and cluck have protein. My taste for meat has developed an inverse correlation to age. The older I get, the less it appeals to me.
So I bought some of those little chocolate protein shakes, the brand with a picture of a wide-eyed cow on the label. One protein shake has 60 grams of protein. I am basically drinking two chicken breasts for lunch. Chocolate chicken. Yum.
Over the course of a week, I probably consume all the protein you would get from an entire side of beef. Consequently, I feel taller, stronger, younger and able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.
I am sailing along, feeling good about life and protein, when some of the grands drop by and swing open the door to the ‘fridge to see what we have to eat.
A voice says, “Grandma, when did you start buying chocolate milk?”
“That’s not chocolate milk, girls. That’s my protein shake,” I say, exuding an air of confidence that says I am in the know and on top of things.
Silence.
“It’s not a protein shake, Grandma. It’s chocolate milk.”
They hand me the bottle with the wide-eyed cow on the label and point to type at the bottom that says, “Chocolate Reduced-Fat Ultra-Filtered Milk” and drop to the floor laughing. I have been drinking chocolate milk for lunch.
I have since switched to the real protein shake, which fortunately gives me strength to endure the ribbing that keeps coming my way.
I wonder if the kid in me knew I was drinking chocolate milk all along.
The grands went home, but they are still rolling on the floor laughing.
Lori Borgman is a columnist, author and speaker. Reach her at [email protected].
