This has been an incredibly therapeutic summer, all things considered. Many sunny days have been spent languidly lounging at my favorite swimming hole, soaking up the golden rays of Ra. This particular spot is deeply sacred to me, but a couple of friends proved worthy of the secret knowledge of the Emerald Pools, and I showed them the way.
On one such day of exhausting adventures scaling rocks and frolicking in the currents, we worked up seemingly insatiable hungers. I had been doing so well, and feeling as good as I do when not eating wheat (or dairy), I felt invincible! We hit the road for home just as the sun was setting, tummies grumbling. A friend had planted the seed of desire weeks before with a Facebook post about In-N-Out, and now with the lion charging in my gullet, I had no will to deny such temptation--I got a double-double animal style.
The sun must've gotten to me this day because upon returning home I thought that a quick jog around the park sounded like a great idea. I usually like to run at night, so that wasn't out of character, but after an already exuberant day coupled with the double-meat-double-cheese burger--I was loco.
I think I made it about half way around the track before realizing there was major trouble ahead. I started to ponder which direction had fewer steps. With each thud of contact between foot and earth the fury in my bowls descended. It had been so long since I had experienced this pain--this spontaneous combustion--I had almost forgotten what my body was capable of. But on this day (night, really), she was right there to remind me. I slowed my gate as the cramps intensified and the confidence in my seal waned, erupting into a mad dash of pure panic once I spotted the truck (I knew there was still the modified gallon jug from when I was traveling cross-country; it was meant for less messy projects, but desperate times call for desperate measures). After wasting the time fiddling with my jogging pants/sausage casings, I concluded this was going to be a mess I wasn't willing to ride home with, and started praying. As I slammed the pedal to the metal, I prayed not to shit my pants all the way home. Every light seemed set against me, each pause at the stop signs seemed an eternity...
Alas, there is a god--I made it to the porcelain paradise of my inner sanctum without a moment to lose.
One would think that after a story like this, the teller would have learned her lesson. The problem is, I have a million more just like this (and some with less fortunate endings). This has been the norm in my life--calm and predictable bowl movements have not. Have I stopped ingesting wheat and dairy products because of this? No. Will I continue to progress in my acceptance and understanding of this malady, and advance my well-being? Yes. Every time I return to the old loves, only to get beat up again, it turns into a comedic ointment of detachment and renewal. Laughter is the best medicine!
On one such day of exhausting adventures scaling rocks and frolicking in the currents, we worked up seemingly insatiable hungers. I had been doing so well, and feeling as good as I do when not eating wheat (or dairy), I felt invincible! We hit the road for home just as the sun was setting, tummies grumbling. A friend had planted the seed of desire weeks before with a Facebook post about In-N-Out, and now with the lion charging in my gullet, I had no will to deny such temptation--I got a double-double animal style.
The sun must've gotten to me this day because upon returning home I thought that a quick jog around the park sounded like a great idea. I usually like to run at night, so that wasn't out of character, but after an already exuberant day coupled with the double-meat-double-cheese burger--I was loco.
I think I made it about half way around the track before realizing there was major trouble ahead. I started to ponder which direction had fewer steps. With each thud of contact between foot and earth the fury in my bowls descended. It had been so long since I had experienced this pain--this spontaneous combustion--I had almost forgotten what my body was capable of. But on this day (night, really), she was right there to remind me. I slowed my gate as the cramps intensified and the confidence in my seal waned, erupting into a mad dash of pure panic once I spotted the truck (I knew there was still the modified gallon jug from when I was traveling cross-country; it was meant for less messy projects, but desperate times call for desperate measures). After wasting the time fiddling with my jogging pants/sausage casings, I concluded this was going to be a mess I wasn't willing to ride home with, and started praying. As I slammed the pedal to the metal, I prayed not to shit my pants all the way home. Every light seemed set against me, each pause at the stop signs seemed an eternity...
Alas, there is a god--I made it to the porcelain paradise of my inner sanctum without a moment to lose.
One would think that after a story like this, the teller would have learned her lesson. The problem is, I have a million more just like this (and some with less fortunate endings). This has been the norm in my life--calm and predictable bowl movements have not. Have I stopped ingesting wheat and dairy products because of this? No. Will I continue to progress in my acceptance and understanding of this malady, and advance my well-being? Yes. Every time I return to the old loves, only to get beat up again, it turns into a comedic ointment of detachment and renewal. Laughter is the best medicine!
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