I’m the first to admit: there are a lot of things on this list that don’t need to be. I don’t really need to speak French or dye my hair pink. Those aren’t needs. Needs are a house, food, enough money for bills and possibly a car. And whenever I tick off something frivolous, as I suppose today’s entry is, I feel somewhat saddened. Have I cheapened my existence because I chose to learn to play guitar than cure cancer? Would this time be better spent in meditation, pondering the big questions instead of celebrating the small things?

And then I realized: the small things are what make you a whole person. In my case, a somewhat quirky person—not a perfect person. Celebrating individuality is what makes turning 30 bearable: you’re that much closer to figuring out who you are, because you figure out what you’re not.

I am not a vegetarian.

Up until this summer, I hadn’t eaten red meat in five years. I sporadically (meaning two or three times a year), ate chicken or pork. I had been living this semi-veg lifestyle, eating mostly Boca and Smartdogs not for moral reasons, but because they provide protein with none of the saturated fat. Also, I am lazy, and it is much easier to throw fake meat in the microwave and spare the risk of salmonella then get out a pan and find a recipe and defrost the meat and zzzzzz…

I wondered, while making The List, was this really the best decision? Less fat, yes, and certainly easier—but soy foods are still processed. I still live with the fear of breast lumps due to too much soy; I am also lactose intolerant and so drink soy in milk form. There are no perfect foods and no completely harmless ways to farm or enjoy them. Also, it had been years since I had a cheeseburger. Recently, my boyfriend ordered one. I looked at it as if it were Jude Law’s naked body.

He put it down on his plate, held my hand and said, “We should get you a cheeseburger.”

The next random night where we couldn’t agree on dinner, we’re standing in front of Ray’s Red Hots off South University. My boyfriend had flatly stated that if I were going to have a cheeseburger, I was going to have the best cheeseburger in Ann Arbor. It was high praise. I had only ever eaten the tofu dog, and that was before the ownership changed hands. I ordered a char-burger with Swiss and grilled onion, expecting very little. I just knew I was getting meat—not a bite, not to share, not to pick around: all for myself.

My boyfriend ordered a basket of half onion rings, half fries, and we sat to wait for our burgers. I realized I didn’t miss meat half as much as I had missed onion rings: crispy, with a slight squish and gooey batter flavor. Such things were abandoned during college to spare my skin and jeans size… things that seemed very unimportant now. It’s not healthy food; it’s food that makes you want to keep eating.

We ordered another basket of waffle fries and I refilled my glass at the giant pitcher of iced cucumber water at the counter. I wish the scorching days of summer hadn’t sped by so quickly, because I have missed the opportunity to offer cucumber water to everyone I know.

Our burgers were up. I hadn’t specified as to the cooking, but I was glad it was cooked through. I get grossed out by raw (or, as my boyfriend puts it, “properly cooked”) meat, and if it were pink in the middle, I wasn’t sure I could soldier through it. The onions smelled delicious, and the Swiss was melting over the sides. It was also huge.

I took a bite.

Well. It was good. The beef patties are from Knight’s, and they were certainly quality. It squished and warmed and ketchupped its way in every manner it was supposed to, and I ate the entire thing in less time than it takes to play a Kesha song.

And yet… it was a burger. It tasted different than a soy burger, yes, and certainly different than a black bean burger. And it was very good. I just couldn’t shake the fact that it was… well, meat. Probably an imprint left on my brain from years of dieting: I didn’t regret eating it, but I couldn’t do it every day. I’m not a very discerning diner, so the only difference between this and some Morningstar Farms on a wheat roll is the latter is less of a cardiac risk and is easily microwaved.

I can’t say it was the best burger in Ann Arbor, since I haven’t tried them all, and have no desire to. I suspect that I would topple out of Blimpy and @burger in much the same dazed, bloated state, so full of animal I could feel it in my pores. This isn’t about The Best -- this is about burgers in general, and I suppose I’m just not one of their die-hard fans. I had consumed almost an entire day’s worth of calories in a single meal. It was good, but all I noticed was all the ways it wasn't cake.

I guess this means I don’t need meat. But if I want it, I know where to go.

See you in 2015 for round two, Ray’s.

Sarah Smallwood is a freelance writer living and working in Ann Arbor. She is currently rewriting her first novel, keeps a daily blog at The Other Shoe and hosts a podcast at Stuff with Things. She can be reached at heybeedoo at gmail dot com.