The past couple of Tuesday nights, The Man has gone out for pizza with his man-friends. And not just to any pizza, but like some of the best pizza he’s ever had (and he’s from a place where he should know). I remember once eating pizza pre-celiac diagnosis and my lips swelling up and blistering like I’d just kissed a sticker bush. So I’m jealous in a detached, philosophical way, but I’ve also made my peace with it. No more pizza means no more blister-lips, so I’m all good with that.
Plus, I’ve got this instead, which The Man buys for me as a consolation gift:
We really do love The Man. He deserves his pizza.