There are days when I try to defy my limitations. Today was one of them.
I had plans. I was supposed to be somewhere. But instead, I had vanilla ice cream, washed it down with black coffee, and topped it off with a slice of cheesecake. Normally, this wouldn’t be a big deal. My stomach has been exceptionally non-discriminating for as long as I can remember. But something shifted as I aged. Something changed, and from then on, lactose intolerance became a threat to my existence, striking fear deep into the depths of my digestive system.
My relationship with dairy is now “it’s complicated.” It’s a bond riddled with betrayal, paranoia, and the constant need for an emergency pack of toiletries. A change of clothes has become my insurance policy for dignity.
It wasn’t always like this. We used to be friends. We had coffee together. About ten years ago, I got sick and switched to black coffee, accidentally cutting out my training for dairy. I was still fine with ice cream and cheese for a while, until the Great Ramen Incident. One bowl of milk-based ramen transformed me into a high-powered weapon of toilet destruction.
For a time, I had medication, a temporary shield lending me the courage to stare cheese and creamy treats in the face. But as my supply of power tablets dwindled, so did my bravado. My world shrank, and the dairy aisle became the most sinister part of the supermarket. Like a sexy assassin (emphasis on the ass).
Parties and dinners became minefields. My kryptonite lurked in light-colored sauces and seemingly innocent desserts. I secretly salivated over every dairy-rich delicacy spread across serving tables, their red flags mocking me. The depressing truth settled in, and I found myself confined to a lonely corner of the buffet. But I was tired of living in fear. Tablets or no tablets, I refused to be held hostage by my body’s betrayal. It is a funny fight, mostly because it always ends in shit.
I refuse to operate from a place of fear. So today, I faced my demons head-on: I consumed dairy without a backup plan. You might wonder why I do this to myself. Honestly, so do I. I guess it’s my version of cliff-jumping or riding a motorbike across ten cars. I like to live on the edge. Of my chair. From home.
I do this with prayers, of course. It is funny how an innocent-looking cream can test your faith.
With reckless determination, I indulged with no safety net, just blind faith that all would be well. In my head, dairy was merely a friend with high-maintenance demands, not the villain she pretended to be. I chose my battles, and today, I wanted peace with cheese. (No beef with cheese, because that just sounds like a cheeseburger.)
Fate humored me by canceling my plans and keeping me home. Miraculously, there were no bathroom runs until morning. Just a lot of gas, but that’s nothing new.
I’m counting it as a win.
