Apparently, it’s National Protein Day.

I didn’t know that was a thing, but I should have. Because nothing says national celebration like grown adults announcing their macros to strangers on the internet.

“Hit 147 grams before noon.”
“Still chasing 30 more grams.”
“Only 22 grams per serving.”

Sir.
This is yogurt. Not a military campaign.

Somewhere along the way, protein stopped being a nutrient and became a personality trait.

Have you ever heard of the Protein Evangelists? These people are an entirely unique breed. They are a social media subspecies that believes protein is not just a nutrient, it is a moral virtue.

They move in packs. You can spot them immediately. They travel with shaker bottles that smell like drywall and chalk dust. They weigh blueberries and almonds as if they were trading gold futures. They measure peanut butter like it’s contraband. They refer to food as “fuel,” which makes me want to light something on fire just to see what happens.

If joy has calories, they’ve already cut it. They’ve turned eating into a competitive accounting exercise. Somewhere in America, a grown adult is weighing spinach like it’s cocaine.

And the macros.

The macros are spoken about the way medieval villagers spoke about omens.

“Carbs are high today.”
“Protein is low.”
“Fat is creeping.”

Creeping?
It’s an avocado, not a burglar.

What fascinates me most is the public reporting. Somewhere, a fully grown adult is whispering “forty-two grams” into a ring light like they just closed a weapons deal. The need to inform the social media population that they have consumed 212 grams of protein and are feeling “dialed in.”

Dialed in to what?
A spreadsheet?

It’s giving livestock energy.

There’s a herd quality to it. One influencer says protein is king, and suddenly everyone is chewing on turkey slices in their car like obedient farm animals waiting for approval from the barn.

Protein.
Macros.
Calories.
Repeat.

If sheep had Fitbits, this is how they would behave.

Look, eat your protein. Lift your weights. Track your intake. I genuinely hope your biceps achieve sentience and start paying rent.

But must we announce it like we’ve conquered Everest every time we finish a chicken breast?

There was a time when food was just food. You ate it. You enjoyed it. You didn’t post a pie chart.

Now I can’t open my phone without someone explaining that their body requires exactly 0.8 grams per pound of lean mass, or they will spontaneously combust.

I ate a sandwich today.
It did not require a press release.

National Protein Day, in theory, is about strength and health. In practice, it’s about watching fully grown adults compete over who can ingest the most beige.

The protein bars.
The protein pancakes.
The protein ice cream.
The protein water.

Protein water feels like something we invented after we ran out of problems to solve.

Meanwhile, I am over here eating like a normal woodland creature. No scale. No app. No performance review at the end of the day.

If I start announcing my macros publicly, I need someone to gently escort me into the forest and let nature take over.

Happy National Protein Day.

May your chicken be seasoned.
May your macros be silent.
And may we all remember that not everything requires a broadcast.