My Mom looked at me like I was crazy when I told her I didn’t want to try the ice cream I fetched her on Thursday. I gently reminded her of my lactose intolerance and she said, “Oh, that’s right, I forgot.” She’s said it a hundred times at least and probably will a thousand more.
This time I had a realization. I’m starting to forget there was a time when I enjoyed ice cream and seek it out, even.
I’ve known about the lactose thing for three or four years, but I began avoiding dairy awhile before that. My subconscious keeps way better track of these things than I do.
It was a milkshake on a beautiful day that was my light bulb. I was feeling great. I decided to celebrate by eating something that made me constantly check to make sure I wasn’t getting stabbed in the stomach. Every time I pulled my hand away from my hunched over midsection I was shocked there was no blood.
It doesn’t seem like enough time has passed to have forgotten the pleasures of being a milk drinker. Percentage-wise, it’s totally the bigger part of my life. But the potentially harmful memories are sinking below the accessible surface. Even though I know better than to try to remake these without significant modifications.
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