There’s no more cheese in my life.
No more dairy in general. No more milkshakes or coffees, unless they’re made with soy milk. No more Camembert (and I used to be able to eat a wheel of that stuff in one sitting alone). No more heavy lasagnes and no more ice-cream.
And that’s not all. I’m not eating gluten, either. I’m buying gluten-free pasta, loitering in the section of the supermarket with the different-coloured packaging. I’m avoiding big, buttered bread rolls and cakes and crackers, muffins and macaroons and even chicken schnitzel.
That’s right. I’ve gone lactose and gluten free. And when I tell people, it’s like I’m announcing that I’ve suddenly taken up smoking crack.
Just as a heads up – none of this sh*t was by choice. I haven’t willingly decided to make my life harder by choosing not to consume two elements that seem to be present in about 75% of food options. I didn’t just wake up one morning last week and say to myself, “You know what’d be really fun? Giving up gluten and lactose! Damn, that’d be cool.”
No. What actually happened: I went to the doctor about six times in the space of less than nine months, complaining about digestive issues.
These issues came on relatively quickly earlier this year after a bout of sickness, and changed my life almost immediately. And not in a good way.
I now triple-guess everything I put in my mouth in case it's going to make me sick. I never try new or spicy food and I mostly stick to bland stuff that won't irritate my stomach. I am consistently anxious in situations where I don't have immediate access to a bathroom. Long car trips have become my idea of a nightmare and I generally don't eat anything at all before them.