Unrequited love hurts. Literally hurts. Often, you don’t realize you are alone in a love fest until long after your dreams of eternal happiness are in full swing. And then, the truth smacks you in the face. Or, in my case, in the gut. After a 34-day separation, I discovered today that I still love cheese, but it does not love me. And probably never did. Hand me a tissue, please.
I went to Chuy’s for lunch today with a fabulous friend and ordered a Mexi-Cobb Salad. This lovely salad has a row of cheese along the outer edges of the plate, and after being dairy free all year due to Whole30, this time I had no restrictions. About the time lunch was over, I started to feel awful. And it just got worse.
By the time I got back to the office, I was so bloated, I felt certain I was having a cheese baby. I could practically feel it kicking me.
My co-worker Dylan, predicted I would be soon be craving pickles, which he thought an amusing side joke related to my sudden onset cheese pregnancy. Like any woman in this condition, I just wanted the baby OUT! And FAST!
Alas, I had to wait it out. And now I really have to consider whether dairy will ever be a part of my life again.
In case you are concerned I might become seriously depressed over probably never eating a Babybel again, please note that on Monday I confirmed I have a healthy, reciprocal love affair with alcohol and popcorn. All things considered, I’ll take it.