Call Betty Ford: I'm hooked on meat.
My name is Myf and I have an addiction. I haven't indulged for three months. I've been good, I really have, but I've had a little slip up. My willpower is shattered. Call Betty Ford.
I'm not hooked on any liquids or powders. I'm hooked on meat. But I've given it up. I don't have a great track record for giving up any of those things that are apparently damaging to our health - the booze, the coffee, the chocolate, the pasta, the cheese - so something had to go. This was a test of willpower I thought I could win. How wrong I was.
Growing up in the country, the journey from paddock to plate was not a mystery wrapped in polystyrene and cling film. I've seen an animal killed and then had the unsettling experience of seeing it served up at the dinner table. I nearly passed out the day an uncle threw fresh horse testicles out of a bucket to the dogs for their dinner. The dogs seemed to think it was Christmas.
Hearing about someone's dietary choices is about as exciting as hearing about a baby's first poo. No thanks. So I feel weird about telling people about my new way of life minus meat. There's already enough in the world to feel guilty about. It's not my job to add to that list.
After a few cheeky wines on a Friday afternoon I relaxed this policy and blurted to some friends about my no-meat regime. I could see their eyes glaze over as I explained myself.
''It's the animal's eyes, I can't do it any more,'' I said, going for an emotional response that I hoped would sell the idea.
My friends looked at me as if I'd just said Tiger Woods was a top husband. But I persisted.
I left the party full of bravado. Surely they must be impressed by my inner strength? The next morning I read a text I sent to my friends after they'd bundled me into a taxi. It read: ''After all my talk about no meat, I'd kill for a kebab.''
Clearly, after a Friday night out on the town, lamb on a spit is to me like crack is to Amy Winehouse. The smell of a kebab joint sends me batty. Fortunately, the cab driver wouldn't let me eat anything like a kebab in his cab [which is fair enough]. So I ended up doing something much, much worse.
To discover my evil nocturnal doings I rummaged through the rubbish.
The plastic wrapping that sat at the bottom of the bin gave the game away. I had made the taxi driver stop at the 7-Eleven to buy a hot chicken roll; the ultimate chicken loaf concoction that contains those mythical ''tits and lips'' lucky-dip chicken ingredients.
Even hardened meat-eaters say no to this stuff. It's on par with the smiley face strasburg you can get at the deli. You just shouldn't.
I fell off the wagon. Badly. I am officially a hypocrite.
But I can get back on that wagon I'm sure. The toughest hurdle will be Christmas Day when the meat-fest begins and the glazed ham is up for grabs. Somehow I can't see myself adding to the Christmas cheer as I watch the rest of the family indulge while I tuck into my ''tofurkey'' or a ''not dog'' in bread.
In order to beat this I must say good bye dim sims, burgers, roasts and goodbye to my favourite kebab caravan [Mr Funny Kebabs, I do love you]. I miss you already.
Let's hope we don't meet again down a dark aisle at 3am at the 7-Eleven. Maybe I should just make life easier and give up the booze? Now that would be rough.
Mys Warhursts' column appears in The Age's MelbourneLife on Fridays.
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