Ohhh… my poor tummy. My poor bum.
So I was grocery shopping with my husband last night, buying lots of healthy foods, sticking to my diet, shedding the pounds, all that good stuff. We head down the candy isle and I turn up my nose while hubby searches for a treat for himself. Then he says, “Hey, look, sugar-free Reese’s Cups! You like those, don’t you?” Why yes, yes I do, I think, and, curious, I pick up the bag. I glance over the nutrition information, and yes, a serving fits wonderfully into my diet plan! I threw them in the cart, thinking… nay, sadly, assuming, these things were made with aspartame, or maybe even my precious Splenda. My mother and I had just had a heated debate over Splenda: she insisting it was bad, and me explaining out all of the studies done on it, and ended in me calling her both an alarmist and a loon. Feeling bad, to end the argument, I told her I “saw the light” and threw out all of my artificially sweetened things, such as soda, juices, my box of Splenda, etc. I didn’t, but she lives 3000 miles away, it’s not like she can raid my kitchen. (“Honey, quick, move that box of Splenda out of the shot of us we’re taking for Mom and Dad!”)
I was feeling smug. Too smug.
Now, you know, I think karma was just sitting around the corner, waiting to jump on me. I could hear it’s mad chuckle, muttering, “Wait 'til you see what I have in store for you for calling your mother a loon!” Stalking me. Biding it’s time.
The husband and I get home and unload our groceries. I decide it would be a great night to try out this new chili-in-a-box. I mean, yes, I’m just asking for trouble now. *Begging * for it.
So we enjoy our delicious chili. I decided, since it was kind of spicy, I would have a glass of milk with that. Oh, did I mention I’m lactose intolerant? Now you know. I always knew, I just live on the edge sometimes. I’ll pay dearly for that glass, but I knew it was coming. I figured I’d take it with the chili and have it all out later. My body hates me, by the way. Loathes me.
An hour after dinner, I’m still feeling okay. I’ve had time to not feel too stuffed, it was a good, low-fat chili, and I didn’t eat too much. Hey, this might not be such a bad night after all, I think. I think I’ll have something sweet. Mmmm, my new treats! Peanut butter cups!
They’re good. A serving size is about five of those little wee cups. There are about ten in the bag. Two servings. You know what? I’ve been good all day, ate nothing but salad until dinner time, and I haven’t had a treat in a while. I’ll eat 'em all. I just loves my peanut butter cups.
The rest of the evening passed without incident. I thought that was kind of curious, but I wasn’t going to think too hard about it. Late at night, I retire to bed (I’ve actually been sleeping well lately with the change in diet, and managing to go to bed at night and wake up in the morning. Yay, me. But let’s continue…)
3AM: Bolt wide awake. Intense gas and bloating. Scared I will wake hubby. Run to the bathroom and just… well, just let the gas out. Nothing more happens. I retire to my bedchambers.
3:30AM: Bolt wide awake. Intense gas and bloating. Off to the bathroom again. Nothing happens… retire to my bedchambers.
4AM: Bolt wide awake, sweating now. Intense gas and bloating. Run to bathroom. Spent quality time in there getting to know the bathmat.
4:20AM: You know the drill. Can play “Taps”. Acoustics in the bathroom are fantastic.
5AM: Hurled.
5:10AM: Hurled.
5:30AM: Shaking and exhausted, set up camp in the bathroom. Read Newsweek cover-to-cover.
6AM: Apologised to everyone I’ve ever hurt in my life, told my mother I love her, and hurled.
6:30AM: Explosion in the rear.
7AM: See a strange, image in the bathroom mirror, think it’s Gollum. It’s me.
7:30AM: Sitting in the living room, trembling all over, pale as a ghost, sweating, and rocking back and forth. My husband wakes up and walks into the living room, sees me and says, “Man, I had a terrible night. Did you sleep well?”
9AM: Hubby goes to work and I hobble into the kitchen to dig the discarded candy package out of the garbage can. Read it:
"“Lactitol (a sugar substitute) is a slowly metabolized carbohydrate that generally causes only a small rise in blood glucose levels.”
And above that:
“Individuals sensitive to sugar substitutes may experience a laxative effect.”
Somewhere, karma and my mother are laughing like loons.
So here I sit: wrapped in a blanket, shivering and sweating, drinking Pepto-Bismol straight from the bottle, though it has no effect whatsoever, thinking about that clever little karma rascal. Later this evening, I’ll watch him wanking off into the sunset, wondering when I’ll see him again, now that I’m a little older, a little wiser, a little more dehydrated.
I’m still not throwing out my Splenda.
