My body has turned on me. Full out assault. It’s sad, really. I thought we were such good friends. But, no.
I turned 42 and the bottom dropped out, so to speak. Not only was there the whole age spot debacle, but now I’m pretty sure that I am lactose intolerant. The whole saying, “Don’t cry over spilled milk”, is just a big, fat honkin’ lie! The more I can’t have it…the more I want it. Who knew that “moo juice”, or lack there of, would have such an impact on me?
Of course, I am not a real fan of being doubled over in pain either, wracked with cramps so horrendous, feeling the contractions, reminding me what it was like to give birth—at any minute. Or not. Stupid intestinal distress that comes as a not so pleasant side effect of lactose intolerance… going and reminding me of child birth and all. And I don’t even get a cute little baby out of it. All pain and no gain. Sheesh. What a rip off.
The other night I baked home made chocolate chip cookies, ’cause that is just the kind of baking mama that I am. Just for my family….well, and I had a craving for some too….but, I baked for MY FAMILY! Anyway, I was sitting on the couch with my daughter, munching on cookies, watching a good TV show….when she got up. AND WENT TO THE FRIDGE AND GOT A GLASS OF MILK TO EAT WITH HER WARM COOKIES! Then to make matters worse she came and sat back down (WITH THE MILK) next to me. I told her not to breathe my way because I didn’t want to smell her milk breath. She apologized as she slurped it down. She looked like she was enjoying it. I cried on the inside, as I ate my cookies sans milk.
It’s a lonely life without my moo juice. We had such a good life together–before it turned on me. Now, all I have left from out relationship are faint and distant memories of dunking cookies, breakfast cereal, and the occasional double chocolate milkshake. All gone now. I don’t know if I’m going to make it. The milk jug mocks me each morning as I open the refrigerator door. Taunting me with it’s farm fresh goodness. I slam the door shut.