I am allergic to wheat. I am not gluten free or Celiac, just plain old allergic to wheat. It gives me a lovely little rash on my collar bone. It doesn’t itch. It usually doesn’t even feel warm. But people ask awkward questions like, “Don’t you know how to use sunscreen?” “Sweetie, do you need aloe?” and “What happened to you?” So, whenever I am going to be around people who aren’t aware that no, I’m not in fact dying, I just wanted to eat a cookie, I avoid wheat, or wear a turtle neck. I don’t want to cause some old person, or audience patron, undue concern, so sandwiches, pizza, and beer are all no no’s before work.
But the problem is: I love wheat. I love grilled cheese sandwiches, I love Hawaiian bread, and I love beer. And I’m living in Alaska, which has some of the most amazing local breweries. I have very little self control. I see bread, and it kills me not to eat it. So, I lead a sad double life. During the day, I am the mild-mannered lettuce wrap eater, and by night, I am the queen of the wheat filled pizza.
I feel awful asking for wheat free meals before work, but I have to look pretty for the show. And my collar bone is definitely shown. But my soul needs the pizza after work as a reward for survival. So, if I ask for a green burger, please don’t judge, and if you see me, chest lit up like Rudolf’s nose with a cinnamon roll in hand, an hour later, I ask for your kindness and understanding.