Monday, July 7, 2014

The Fourth of July taught me a lesson about being GF

I've been doing pretty good, GF-wise. Only cheating when there's nothing GF in the house--we've all been sick on and off the last month, and sometimes just no one is up for going out. Tracking what I'm eating and thinking about it before I eat it. Reading labels.

But the Fourth means lots of pie and hot dogs and hamburgers and biscuits with butter. I generally don't worry about staying GF on holidays--I want to be free to eat the traditional foods we always eat, without demanding alternatives that aren't right, or depriving myself of the food I miss the rest of the time.

So I stuck to the diet all week so that I could cheat when it came to the family cookout.

But I cheated too much.

Not only did I eat the pie and hot dogs on buns and biscuits, but I also ate seconds and thirds and stuffed myself with all the food I don't eat anymore, and it was wonderful. And then it very much wasn't.

An hour or so after we got home, I started feeling like a drumhead, pulled tight. And then halfway through the night, I woke up hurting. My stomach hurt, and I was queasy, but I never felt so queasy that I could just throw up and make it better. My back and sides hurt. My lower stomach hurt. My shoulders and my legs were so tight and achy that I couldn't relax and get the pain in my insides to loosen up.

It was bad. For hours.

And I learned a valuable lesson: just because I can do what I used to do, doesn't mean I should. Through my whole life, I would just eat until I was too full on these picnic-type holidays, and I never worried about it--but now, after rearranging my diet and working to be healthier, I can no longer tolerate that much food at all, let alone that much of specifically what I'm avoiding.

So I won't be doing that again. It's four days later and I'm still feeling it.

No thanks.

No way.
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