Back in 2002, I was a nomadic utopian who traveled to California to save the trees. I joined a small army of Sierra Club door-to-door solicitors. The estimated weekly salary was $400 and, for a newbie fresh out of college, it seemed like just enough money to get by on. Of course, I didn’t realize I wouldn’t make anything unless I brought in adequate donations. I got fired my second day, after I raised just $50 over the course of 10 grueling hours traipsing up and down steep hills from one fancy door to the next in a glitzy neighborhood of Marin County. The next day, I applied for a legal position and never looked back.

Last week, as I was returning to my desk job after my lunch, all these weeks of ignoring these bright-eyed enthusiasts took its toll. A young man, much like my former self, broke through the barriers I put up and successfully engaged me with his pitch. “Would you like to sponsor a starving child in Chile? It doesn’t cost much per month,” he urged. I could sense his natural enthusiasm mixed with the hope of meeting his daily quota. I kindly refused, telling him I’d recently contributed to Save the Children during its Japan earthquake relief effort. He looked dejected, his shoulders slumped and the grin disappeared. Then he shot a dirty look at the new hardcover I was holding. I knew what he was thinking. She could buy a $30 book, but not give a fraction of that to feed a child. I’d had the same feeling when people shut their doors in my face. They had opulent homes but couldn’t spare a dime to save the outdoors. I didn’t say anything else for fear I’d get talked into donating against my better judgment. I simply smiled and said I had to get back to work.

As I walked away fighting guilt, I reminded myself that like so many other kindhearted New Yorkers, I give back in my own way and in my free time. I spend Saturdays at food pantries and soup kitchens, organize fundraisers, go on service trips, and securely donate online to the nonprofits I believe in. Even just helping someone carry a stroller up the subway stairs makes me feel good. But as a busy New Yorker, I still like to walk down the block without being harassed, even if it makes me look insensitive to those less fortunate. Sometimes I think I am doing these street fundraisers a favor by not engaging with them. Perhaps one day they too will look back and realize there are better ways to support causes close to their heart. Or maybe that’s just another excuse I make for myself.

When my son was born, we raised him on the folk music of the ’60s. When Jacob went from taking tiny first steps to dancing in the kitchen with me, I loved it. His natural affinity for dance left me brazenly bragging, “If he wants to take ballet, I would gladly support him.” My liberal husband flinched slightly but he accepted it. We both knew ballet doesn’t make somebody gay. Sexual orientation is born, not made.

As he got older, Jacob expressed no interest in ballet. At 6, he’s busy playing sports, making friends. And he’s an affectionate child, physically demonstrative with me, his grandparents, his sister and his friends. Especially his friend Max. They are best buds, and I’ve watched them grow together with affection. Yet, there are times when I physically remove them from each other.

“We don’t touch our friends,” I’ve lectured them a million times. “Hands to yourselves.”

Eventually, this graduated to, “We don’t kiss our friends on the lips,” and, “We don’t touch anyone’s wieners but our own!” (Yes, I’m that annoying mother who speaks in the inclusive plural.)

If my son grows up to be gay, well, I’ll embrace my son-in-law with open arms. But right now he’s 6 years old and I find myself denouncing “gay” behavior, no matter how normal it might be in a developing child. I know I’m walking a fine line. If he’s “born this way,” I’m harming his self-esteem; but, in reality, I’m not going to tell him it’s appropriate to kiss and touch other boys.

My true litmus test is asking myself whether I would react the same way if his friend was a Maxine. The brutal, unvarnished truth? No. Of course, I would discourage inappropriate touching, but I might think the relationship was cute. I might suggest they get married when they grow up. I might take a picture so I could show him his first girlfriend when he’s older.

In the end, I’m not ready to put my money where my mouth is. Not yet. When it comes to my 6-year-old son, I don’t react to “gay” and “straight” behavior in the same way. I’m only a supporter in the abstract.

A hypocrite.

But in reality my shoes were leather and that wasn’t the worst of it. I indulged in an entire hobby where I regularly used and consumed leather goods: horseback riding. I owned beautiful black leather show boots that went up to my knee; I rode on a soft chestnut leather saddle; my hands held braided leather reins that connected to a leather bridle. And I had my justifications: The boots were used; the saddle and bridle were more comfortable for the horse (OK, that one was a stretch even back when). But the truth was I not only tolerated the various leather equipment, I liked it. I loved the way it looked, the way it felt, the way it smelled. To this day the distinct aroma of leather tack brings back fond adolescent memories of galloping and grooming horses. I had no problem immediately labeling meat as an animal corpse, but with cowhide I quickly mastered the art of disassociation.

By the time I was 16 or so, I at least wore my hypocrisy on my sleeve. A black ’70s leather jacket had been passed down to me by a friend’s mother. That one was easy to absolve — we’re talking cows that were killed decades ago — but impossible to hide from my friends. And that was OK, mostly, because I’d reached that delightful stage of adolescence where everything is glib and ironic, and any values you once clung to as a child are automatically dismissed as “kid stuff.” So in that context, wearing a leather jacket while refusing to eat meat was some sort of subversive contradiction. Somewhere in the back of my mind, though, it still irked me.

But with time, the black-and-white moralizing of my childhood evolved into something more nuanced. Part of growing up is realizing that the clear and galvanizing may not be as clear (or galvanizing) as you were once convinced it was. Marxists go corporate. Hippies cut their hair. Punk rockers put on ties. And sometimes vegetarians wear leather. I came to realize that not eating meat didn’t give me the right to be sanctimonious but it also didn’t mean I had to beat myself up for a few moral inconsistencies. Being a bit of a hypocrite didn’t make me a bad person. It just made me a person, period.

I still don’t eat meat of any variety, but the fervor is gone. When I found out a delicious goat cheese and mushroom tapa I’d just eaten had been cooked in beef stock, I managed to stomach it with few serious qualms. There are even times when I’d rather not know how exactly my food has been prepared at a restaurant. And I recognize other lapses in an ethical code that once seemed starkly black and white. Not only do I purchase leather products on occasion, I also eat milk and eggs (which if my moral compunctions were consistent, I would do only once assured the products had not been ravaged from the bodies of some brutally enslaved cows or chickens on a factory farm).

Now when people ask me why I’m a vegetarian, I don’t give them a lecture on morality. Truth be told, my vegetarianism no longer feels like an ethical choice so much as a long-standing habit or bizarre personality quirk. So, when pressed, I come up with something along the lines of, “I have the luxury of not having to eat meat so I don’t.” Of course, I also have the luxury of not having to buy leather, but I still do.