I am oscillating along the lines of a near-quarter life crisis and it can all be traced back to an admitted defeat and final termination of a finicky relationship with lactose.
We did have some beautiful beginnings; I was raised on the dairy. As a child, and even through high school, I drank milk like water. From the dregs of my cereal bowl, in a carton at lunch, chocolate milk for a snack, and a tall, cool glass with dinner, it might be safe to say, along with other byproducts, cows are the sole reason I survived as an adolescent.
Yet for reasons likely stemming from a sudden and inexplicable desire to be healthier, something in this nurturing relationship changed when I got to college.
Why drink regular cow’s milk when I could be downing double the calcium for half the calories with almond milk or enjoying the sweet, indulgent goodness of “milk” of the chocolate soy variety? The love for my friend and provider of so many years soon expired and I readily hopped aboard the lactose-free train.
However, after a few months I abruptly resurfaced from this weird, unnecessary and completely ineffective dive into self-improvement, as do we all, with any luck, from the irrational experimentations of youth. I was back on the bandwagon—or you might call it a tractor.Milk and me, reunited.
But, something had changed. Milk just wasn’t the same.
I came back from my digression begging for forgiveness and presuming my wily dairy companion would welcome me back with open arms. I thought we could laugh about my silly notions in due time; I mean, milk comes from happy cows or something to that end, does it not?
There is no particular moment I can recollect that triggered my return to milk, all I know is that one day I went grocery shopping and came back with a gallon of skim and a half-gal of chocolate Swiss style 1 percent for good measure.
The rest of the groceries sat melting and thawing like a felled scoop of ice cream on a hot summer day as I poured myself a tall glass of that taupe tastiness. Gone in a flash, I next moved back into the paper bag abyss of groceries for a fresh box of Frosted Mini-Wheats, which I ravenously ripped open.
Coating my wheaties with a generous helping of milk, my snack looked more like a creamy kiddie pool for a bunch of squares than a bowl of cereal. Now might also be a good time to mention my general policy of continuing to pour cereal until every last drop of milk has dissipated. Ergo, I typically welcome excessive milk amounts.
But as I slurped up the final drops of shredded dregs my inner voice subconsciously quoted a dialogue between Winnie the Pooh and his tummy, “Sounds like you’re going to be mighty feisty today” (this is a real quote from the Winnie the Pooh movie, look it up if you don’t believe me, but I digress), though that loveable Pooh Bear probably never said it with quite so much foreboding.
Instead of the sunny silence of a satisfied stomach, my inner voice grumbled in dismay. In karmic retribution for my betrayal of dairy, dairy had now betrayed me.
It’s like the theme of my life suddenly became some kind of horrible, dairy-inspired revamp of a Notorious B.I.G. song: “Mo’ Milk, Mo’ Problems.” After a six-month hiatus, I had developed a lactose intolerance, and soon came to realize any amount past a cup of my childhood companion would never sit quite right again.
We’re told not to cry over spilled milk, but what about a few tears shed for the end of an era? Is that okay?
You might think I’m being overdramatic, but if so, you probably don’t realize the extent of truth I portend in my milk musings of the above paragraphs. The actualization of a lactose intolerance dealt a crushing blow to my general way of life—a life I had taken a vacation from, but one I had grown to love and hoped to return to nonetheless.
Please, use my story as a cautionary tale. Don’t go looking for something flashy and new when you’ve already got a perfectly satisfying and healthy old friend to wait for you with cookies when your day goes sour. If you’ve got an ounce of lactose tolerance left in your tummy, don’t let it slip away; milk that sucker for all it’s worth.
Ever had a cow over milk? Tell Jaime your MOOving story at jbrackeen@dailycardinal.com.
