I've fallen of the wagon. Or the yoga mat, depending on which way ya look at it. The kicker? It's all under doctor's orders. Sort of.
I went in to see my doctor a few weeks ago convinced I needed testing for a bunch of crazy stuff and go all kinds of insane with the diet limitations like I did in November with no grains/gluten/dairy/sugar not because the scale is pissing me off right now but because, well, I felt better then. I wasn't bloated, moody, tired, as easily depressed, and I sure as hell wasn't craving sugar all the time. So whaddya think, Doc?
"Sweetie," she said slowly, "do you really think you need tests your insurance company might not cover if you felt better when you were eating that way?"
Well....when you put it that way, I guess not.
Doctor Obvious did clear me for celiac disease testing, though. I may have gone mostly gluten-free before the new year rang in, but I haven't always been strict about it because I don't get sick like my husband and daughter do. But, says Doctor Obvious, just because I don't have the same symptoms doesn't mean I don't have the same diagnosis.
The twist is that in order to get an accurate test result, you need to eat the crap that might be the reason you're feeling like crap to begin with. Enter the breads and flours and baked goods I have avoided like the plague. Add in a few extra Since I'm Already Eating the Rest of that Craps, and you've got me sitting here counting down till Thursday so I can get tested and wake up on Friday the dieting equivalent of a born again Christian.
Was that all supposed to be capitalized?
The funniest part of this whole thing is The Husband's response when I relayed Doctor Obvious' unscientific findings.
"That's what I said, isn't it?"
Semantics, buddy. Semantics.