I was recently at a delightful group lunch hosted by a dear friend, surrounded my even more dear friends and delicious plates of share food (hello, chimichurri sauce I’m looking at you!) Prior to the lunch most of the attendees had been warned about the difficulties one guest was having with food allergies.
You see, dear reader, this friend was, at the time, on a restricted diet and only able to eat very specific, non-inflammatory foods. Those of us whose appetites were not dictated by the delicate requirements of our digestive systems were warned not to mention it to her – under no circumstances were we to comment on the fact that she was subsisting solely on lentils. We wouldn’t want to upset her. To understand why this is a particular point of interest for me we must, yet again, relive the horrors of my pregnancy.
Remember how I vomited 20+ times a day for 36 weeks? Remember how I burst a heap of capillaries in my face from vomiting so violently, so frequently? Remember - yada yada yada you get the gist. My pregnancy sucked harder than a Dyson cordless vac. While I was pregnant I had the pleasure of luncheoning with the same group of people previously mentioned - prior to my friend discovering her wayward gut flora.
I know, FOR A FACT (because I grilled my friends on it later) that no such warning about my delicate state was given ahead of this lunch. My friends were not asked to be careful with me while I heaved into a Coles reusable shopping bag. They were not warned that I was feeling incredibly self conscious about my state and that mentioning my illness, or the pregnancy causing it, would have me running back to my husband a sopping, snotty, hysterical, crying mess.