I love red wine. Maybe not all of it — shiraz has always seemed a little sweet for me and I think I’ve generally not been excited about grenache — but a good pinot noir is one of life’s best things, IMO.

I’m at about 100% certainty that red wine triggers my joint pain.

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

I went out to lunch yesterday with someone who has been on a restricted diet for years and she confirmed something that I’ve been noticing: having eliminated these foods from my diet, my body’s reactions when I encounter a trigger again are much fiercer than they were before. The dull ache that I was used to living with is now a prohibitive misery when it comes back. My joints — when unhappy — feel like they have hot coals living in them, burning me from the inside out. When happy, they are unnoticeable, for the first time in years. Happy joints are silent. I like having silent joints.

I also like red wine. But it’s just not worth it. Walking, typing, bending my elbows — moving — those are all good things, too. Moving is nice! I approve of it. Enough to — oh, so reluctantly — add red wine to the potatoes, tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, and wheat flour pile of foods that I will miss. I can’t believe that I’m really going to spend the rest of my life without pizza. But the last time I had pizza, I woke up four hours later feeling like I was on fire, my fingers throbbing with pain. It’s not an experience that I want to repeat.

I think my next reintroduction will be rice. But I’m going to wait at least a week, because I really want to have rice back and I don’t want my rice reaction to overlap with anything else. I’ve kept hoping with the red wine that maybe it was a reaction to something else — I ate accidental canola oil yesterday, can’t I blame it on that? — but alas, it’s time to face the truth.

Damn it.