Most of my friends are familiar with the phrase, “Dairy is scary to Teri.” Now, this isn’t a handy phrase just because it rhymes (though that doesn’t hurt), but because I am mildly lactose-intolerant. “Mildly,” meaning “I probably shouldn’t be eating this, but I’m going to anyway.”
Eating too much dairy can (and will) make me sick. Sometimes I ignore this, when I’m craving a chocolate milkshake or my mom makes that awesome vanilla pudding stuff for my birthday that she knows I adore and, I’m convinced, makes it simply to punish me for all the rotten things I did as a kid. (Like sneaking out in the middle of the night and getting picked up by the police… but that’s a story for another time.)
Last night, after returning from an evening of fun (and having consumed too much alcohol), my roommate and I each got an order of cheese sticks. I promptly consumed them upon sight, and chased them with two Pepto Bismol tablets. Now, usually when ordering said cheese sticks, I’ll eat half an order. Or slightly less than half an order, and still feel the beginning pangs of my intestines protesting their existence. Last night, I ate the entire order of cheese sticks. I sat in fear for a solid five minutes afterward, wondering just what consequence was on the way.
Nothing happened. I had no pain (most likely due to the pink stuff. Which, I just learned, used to be sold at soda fountains in the 1920s.) But now I’m worried, cause the cheese sticks are still in there. I know my body didn’t digest them. Where are they? The digestive system has always been something I’ve tried not to put too much thought into. I use the same approach with it as with most things I don’t understand (intestines, airplanes, and men being only a few examples): I won’t mess with you, and you just keep on doing what you’re supposed to. Everyone wins.
But seriously, ten cheese sticks have to go somewhere.