My friends dropped their Irish cream and whiskey shots into Guinness and gulped as quickly as they could before their drinks curdled. Most succeeded, but Downtown wasn’t so lucky. I laughed at him, disgusted at the thought of Downtown’s drink. My decade-long allergy to milk—one of my genetic acquisitions from my bone marrow donor—saved me from having to try Irish Car Bombs and offending my palate (and the Irish).
My immune system isn’t quite a teenager, and it outgrew my milk and peanut allergies like the child it is. Last year I self-experimented on my milk allergy and called victory after chugging 26 ounces without reacting. Months ago I duplicated that experiment with peanuts until I ate 66, which has the same number of calories as I’ve consumed this whole day as of 3 p.m. (Kiddies, don’t try this at home. Leave it to the professional idiots like me.)
I assumed I would make up for my lost milk years with so many enormous milkshakes, and bowls of banana pudding and ice cream that I would cause a new milk allergy. At the least I would finish each of my cheat meals with a milk product.
I love that I no longer have food restrictions and I indulge sometimes, but it turns out that I mostly drink milk just as a weight training supplement. And I can’t imagine ending my cheat meals on anything besides candy, for which just writing the word spikes my glucose. Looking through my photo gallery, I realize I photograph new candies at supermarkets and share them with my other candy-loving friends and brother. I nearly cried when I couldn't find these the evening of my last cheat meal:
I overconsume coffee, a calorie-free beverage, which was inevitable due to my addictive personality and obsession with shedding body fat. During the last snow day, CantSleepWontSleep and I couldn’t find a single open coffee shop in our Crystal City neighborhood. We searched everywhere within a 600-foot radius, for at least 12 minutes. We were tired, snowy and thirsty. When we found Bar Louis open, we were so relieved. But with the snow accumulating an inch an hour and our poor bartender itching to leave, we couldn’t simply order $2 coffees. “What is Irish coffee?” I asked our bartender.
The hot, freshly brewed coffee had that classic aroma and mouthfeel I was accustomed to. The brown sugar and Baileys added a sweet, creamy flavor. The Irish coffee soothed my soul, and if not for its $12 price tag and nearly 200 calories I would have drunk until my heart arrested from caffeine overload.
Now I really may make up for those lost milkless years with Irish coffees: in the mornings after exercising (not on workdays, obvi J); to complement my candy during cheat meals; and at home on the next snow day which is today, now at 3:45 p.m.
I will not catch up on all those lost Irish Car Bombs, however. If my friends never know I can now drink them then they won’t pressure me, so shh, don’t tell them. Especially not Downtown.