Bypassing the Milky Way can lead to a few Snickers

Who loves a big glass of milk?  Who thinks that the perfect compliment to a giant slice of chocolate cake or a plate of cookies is a tall, icy cold glass of milk?  Who wakes up in the middle of the night and heats themselves a cozy, comforting mug of warm milk to sail them back to dreamland?  Who can’t imagine the idea of a life without milk?

Not me, that’s who.

By that you may surmise that I don’t care much for milk.  That’s not to say that I can’t have milk, I mean I’m not allergic to it or anything.  It doesn’t react badly to my digestive system. I know some people who can’t drink milk because it makes them sick to their stomach.  In my case, the very thought of drinking milk makes me queasy.

I drank milk as a child, but during my teen years I switched from white milk to chocolate milk, and then at some point I stopped drinking milk altogether.  I just lost my taste for it.  The longer I went without drinking a glass of milk, the more I became repulsed by the idea of drinking milk.

My children just can’t wrap their heads around this feeling.  They’re both hardcore milk drinkers; up until lately, we were going through a gallon of milk every other day.  They must get it from my husband, who drank enough milk as a teen to justify owning his own cow. Okay, full disclosure; he grew up on a farm, but still…

“Why don’t you like milk, Mom?” my children ask. “Why don’t you like Brussels sprouts?” I reply. “Because Brussels sprouts are disgusting!” they counter. “And that’s how I feel about milk.” This usually ends the discussion. (By the way, I happen to love Brussels sprouts).

Maybe the issue is that I’m sending them mixed messages.  I have no problem consuming items that are made from milk.  God knows I’ve hoovered enough cheese and yogurt and butter and ice cream to sink a ship.  It doesn’t help that my children resume their interrogation whenever they see me drinking something made with milk.

“I thought you didn’t like milk.”  “This is a milkshake.”  “How is that different than milk?”  “It’s frozen.”  “Would you drink chocolate milk?” “No.”  “But you drink hot chocolate.” “That’s different.” “Why?” “Because it’s hot.”

I wouldn’t think of eating a bowl of cereal without pouring milk into it first.  This is the opposite of my sister, who eats only dry cereal with a glass of milk on the side, but that’s a column for another day.  I think I can handle milk in my cereal because only small amounts of liquid are being consumed in conjunction with the solid   However you will never see me slurping up any remaining milk from the bowl once the cereal is gone.  It either goes down the drain, or I’ll add a little more cereal into the bowl to absorb whatever milk is left.

If I’m going to come completely clean, I have to admit that I don’t even like having milk come in contact with my skin.  If I’m pouring milk for one of my children and a little sloshes out of the bottle onto my hands, I have to wash them right away.  And those “Got Milk?” ads kind of gross me out, the ones where people are standing and smiling at you with a gigantic milk mustache, as if they don’t even feel that slimy stretch of milk on their upper lip.  Just thinking about it makes me shudder.  But that’s normal, right?  Ok, so I gagged when I accidentally took a sip of my son’s milk from a covered cup that I thought contained water and replayed the horrific feeling in my mind for the rest of the day.  That doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with me, does it?  Could it be I’m just a tad…milk phobic?

The Milk campaign’s tag line is “Milk: It Does a Body Good”.  While that may be true, it’s clear that milk sure isn’t doing my mind any favors.  And then there’s the old saying that goes “One man’s food is another man’s poison.” 

In my case, perhaps it should be, “One woman’s milk is another woman’s Brussels sprouts.”