...and then I cried.

On my way to work, almost daily, the radio show I listen to does a segment called  "...and then I cried." The rule is you had to have cried over something stupid and pointless. You call in and anonymously share with the world your emotional breakdown over spilling your Starbucks Peppermint mocha, or how you cried because your husband brought home takeout and didn't ask you what you wanted... even though he picked up what you always get.
It's hilarious and I love it. Shamelessly.  Like who does that, right? Because normal people don't lose it over ridiculous nonsense. I can count on one hand the number of times I cry in a year, hate crying hate hate hate hate crying. Mainly because my cry face looks like a chubby Asian, sun burnt and being feasted on by demons. If I cried pretty, like a chick flick heroine, a little tastefully dropped tear out the very corner of the eye- leaving the eyeliner I worked so hard on perfectly intact- maybe, maybe I'd cry a little more.

But probably not.

We started AIP on January 1st, like all possibly- maybe- a little- slightly heavy Americans making a drastic eating change hoping by Valentines to be a Rachel McAdams stunt double.  Super stoked about our wigged out diet lifestyle change, we hit up the produce section and said "see ya latter suckas" to the processed poison we'd been ingesting since infancy.

Trust me, more to my surprise than yours, here we are 8 days later having survived our sugar free, gluten free, nut free, bean (INCLUDING COFFEE *gasp*) free, tomato free, potato free, dairy free lifestyle.  Did I mention no alcohol? For real, it's hard folks. Because I can handle a lot with a single shot of bourbon.

So with some day four hunger going on, some new stress/gossip induced anxiety at work and an accountant emailing 15 times because I really need to start making some decisions... I won't even tell you about some lady stuff that was going on. Because we don't talk about that. Because it's 1836 and ladies just don't do that... everything detox-y came to a furious and well, pitiful boiling point because it was there, in that moment over a pie plate of half eaten spinach- I became Anonymous Lucy- and I cried.