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I Cheated and I Paid for It
I have a confession to make
There it was staring at me from across the room — the most delicious-looking cheese platter. I was famished and the cheese was giving me that look.
I could hear it calling my name.
Just try it. A small amount. You’ll be fine.
I don’t drink. I don’t do drugs. I don’t eat meat. These things are by choice.
I can’t eat cheese because of my stomach. I have what they call microscopic colitis, an autoimmune inflammation of the colon. Well, there isn’t anything microscopic about it when it returns with a vengeance.
You see, I’d been giving in from time to time when out of the house. It hadn’t bothered me yet, so I indulged once in a while, hoping and praying that I could just be vegetarian.
At a family dinner, I had some parmesan on my pasta. Just a sprinkle. I was fine. Maybe it didn’t really bother my stomach and maybe my problem back then was just the alcohol.
Alcohol exacerbates it, too.
So, I tried it again another time. A bite here and there. All good.
I believed I deserved some of that cheese platter. Just a few squares of sharp cheddar and a slice of brie with apricot jam on top.
