...these are the words I said to my husband earlier today...
Why?
Because I ate the damned pizza, that's why.
I've been diagnosed with celiac disease (with the added special touch of being lactose intolerant, thank you very much)...and for the most part I haven't missed bread and pasta all that much...
Until today.
I ordered pizza for the kids for lunch as a treat and even decided to splurge on delivery (mainly so I wouldn't have to leave my nice warm house and go out into the damp, cold April morning) and when the thing arrived, I started to salivate...
Setting the pizza on the counter to cool for a bit, I told myself over and over (mantra-like, you know?), "Bad for you, bad for you...painful bloating, bad gas...don't do it, don't do it nononono...."
And then the little voice inside my head went to work, telling me that there was and is no way possible that I have celiac disease...that I must have made up the whole thing in my head...I mean, really, no one else in my family has this problem...maybe whatever was the matter with me before has gone away...
And the smell of the pizza filled the kitchen with its tantalizing aroma and the crust...it was so...soft...and so I succumbed to temptation and ate an entire triangle...and then I watched my stomach begin to bloat out like someone was filling a balloon inside my gut...
Then I lay groaning on the bed, curled into as much of the fetal position as I could get and whined about all the things I would have to give up...
My birthday is Saturday and there will be no birthday cake. Sniff...
I can't ever eat ice cream again. Sniff, sniff...
No beer. Sniff, snort, sniff...
No more Buffalo Chicken at Denny's on the kids' birthdays. Moan...
No more pizza. Wail...
And just when I was about to start feeling really sorry for myself, another thought crossed my mind...
Suck it up, princess...and figure out a way to make these things so they taste good...
Because I am not living without pizza or birthday cake for the rest of my life...
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