I don’t want to be that girl.
The one who eschews gluten because it’s a fad or the hip thing to do. Nor do I want to be the annoying woman in a restaurant who tells the server all about her newly diagnosed lactose intolerance, uttering one special request after another.
I have a dear friend who won’t shut up about gluten, talking about it as if the protein that legit causes trouble for those with sensitivity, is a horned devil pitchforking his scrawny ass with hot tines.
“Sus, I feel fantastic,” Reggie Veggie said, patting his abs that have wittled from holding an NBA basketball to looking as if he were ready to give my man Matthew McConaughey a run for his shirtless sixer. “I’ve noticed a huge difference in my energy levels and weight loss,” he continued crowing, tossing a seven-dollar loaf of cardboard “bread” in his cart along with a bag of cruelty-free carrots, the kind organic farmers sing lullabies to. “I eat a carrot every day without fail.”
Am I supposed to give my dear food virgin a star for his sticker chart? Just ’cause he carb-shamed me as I threw in enough Mueller’s to feed all of Italy. Not to mention the scorch- eye he shined on that box of new and IMPROVED Cocoa Puffs. I mean, look. This is the tail end of a pandemic and my ever-widening rump is desperate for gluten, GMOs, trans fats, and all other evils like high-fructose corn syrup and Xanthan gum.
“In September,” I informed Mr. Rabbit, “General Mills made Cocoa Puffs more chocolatey. Plus, I own a bit of stock in the company. Gotta help out my portfolio.”
He scoffed. “If you live long enough to reap the fruits of that investment. It’s a wonder you don’t end up on My 600-Lb. Life with that diet of yours.”
“Hippos are vegan and look how fat they are. So are manatee and look at their bloat.”
He frowned while carefully placing a single chemical-free cuke in the cart next to his side of the loot.
This peeps, is how a newly gluten-free smug vegetarian judges my grocery purchases. He had a near-fatal blood pressure spike *probably a jump from 52/48 to 68/50* when I cruised aisle eight and tossed in beloved White Cheddar Cheez-Its and what I thought were healthy Wheat Thins.
“Those are loaded with gluten,” he shouted, face purpling. He abandoned me for the organic produce and returned with a bag of avocados.
“I’m buying those, too. Look.”
“Are they organic?”
“No.”
“They’ll kill you. You have no idea the crap they use to grow those.”
I pressed my lips in thought before speaking. “See this bottle of Gain dishwashing soap in here? I plan to wash my avocados and then they’ll be organic.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“It is in my house. I grew up on Southern foods and the occasional Swanson’s TV dinner. We lived for babysitter nights when Mom and Dad would go dancing or whatever and we got frozen potpies. If it weren’t for gluten and GMOs of all varieties, I wouldn’t have survived past grade school.”
A week later I went gluten-free for a hot minute. I lasted all of six hours.
He asked how I felt.
“I lost forty pounds, grew two inches, my IQ soared *now I’m just slightly below average*.
“You are what you eat.”
“And I are just fine.”