You know how some couples bond by working out together? Or meal prepping? Or doing morning walks?
My husband and I bond by playing daily games of “what new food item will betray his digestive system today.”
This week’s installment began when my husband (40M) decided he wanted to “clean up his gut.” Now, this is the same man who once deep-fried a Pop-Tart because he wanted to “experiment.” The same man who thought taking a fiber supplement and eating 20 chicken wings was "balance."
So when he suddenly started Googling things like “gut health” and “low FODMAP recipes,” I got nervous. Real nervous.
For three days straight, he only ate boiled veggies, brown rice, and something that vaguely resembled tofu but had the texture of a wet band-aid. Then he added a chia smoothie. Because why not throw a gallon of jelly seeds into a system already on strike?
Fast forward to night three:
We’re in bed. I’m half asleep.
He turns to me and says, “Babe my insides feel like they’re gentrifying.”
I ask what that even means.
He responds by letting out a fart so long and complex it could have been an orchestral overture. I’m talking crescendo, movement changes, and a final brass section that set off the carbon monoxide detector.
I left the room. The dog left the room. Even Alexa asked if we wanted to call emergency services.
The next day, he started clutching his side like he was in a Shakespeare play and announced that he might have a twisted colon. Not a real diagnosis. Just vibes.
So he goes to the gastroenterologist, and after several tests, scans, and what I assume was a high-stakes round of “Name That Smell,” they confirm:
IBS. With Lactose Intolerance. And “mild food sensitivity to everything he loves.”
Great.
He comes home looking like he lost a custody battle with his own colon. But instead of being careful, he takes the new list of “safe foods” and decides that “moderation” is just a polite suggestion.
He eats an entire tub of hummus, half a watermelon, and what I’m pretty sure was three servings of Brussels sprouts. All in one sitting. Like a goat.
That night, he transformed into a sentient whoopee cushion. I had to Google “how to safely open windows during a storm” just to survive. At one point I honestly thought the walls were breathing.
And then came The Great Yogurt Incident.
I told him, kindly, to avoid dairy. He nodded. Smiled. Said “I got this.”
Then I found him in the kitchen at 2am, double-fisting Greek yogurt and shredded cheddar cheese like some kind of protein goblin. He looked me in the eyes and said, “The probiotics cancel the dairy.”
That’s not how science works.
That’s not how anything works.
Long story short: he’s now grounded from unsupervised grocery shopping, I’ve removed all dairy from the house, and he’s only allowed to have tofu if I’m watching.
Also, the dog still won’t sleep in our room. He has PTSD from last Thursday’s cheddar hurricane.
Marriage is beautiful.
But sometimes it smells like death and poor decisions.
