Steamed Milk and Structural Integrity
I watched this Daniel Sloss clip—you know the one, where he pokes gentle fun at people who start their day by heating up milk. And I laughed. Of course I laughed. The man is hilarious, and his accent could convince me to recycle. (Which I already do, but now I do it with a slightly more flirty energy.)
But also? Daniel, sweetie… you’re a man. Which means that when you hit your late forties, your bones will probably still be bones. Meanwhile, mine are on a countdown to crumble into calcium-flavoured fairy dust.
And so yes—yes, I start my day by heating up milk. Not just for the nostalgic joy of being a sentient bedtime story, but because I’m trying not to collapse like a haunted Jenga tower in the middle of a pharmacy aisle. Women hit midlife and our bones start whispering tick, tick, tick—and what do doctors say?
They pat us on the head like anxious Labradors and coo, “Take your calcium supplement, sweetie.”
That’s it. That’s the entire plan. No answers, no urgency—just a gummy, chalky little placebo and a vague hope that we’ll stop asking questions. And here’s the kicker: it doesn’t even work. The research we do have shows that by the time your bones start breaking up with you, the calcium supplement is basically just expensive sand.
We know now (because women funded their own studies again) that calcium supplements don’t magically save our bones. It’s all a game of timing, hormones, and fate. But warm milk? It comforts. It soothes. It tricks our nervous systems into thinking we’re not dying on a cellular level. And it tastes nice. Let us have that.
Also, for those wondering—yes, heating milk still leaves it full of nutrients. I Googled it. Extensively. Because when someone mocks your coping mechanism, you become an expert in its defence.
And maybe that’s the real point here: men get to age like whiskey. Women get handed a pamphlet about bone loss and a suggestion to smile more. So forgive us for clinging to the one ritual that makes mornings slightly less existential.
Daniel, I love you. Truly. But I swear on my coffee machine and milk frother—if your femur ever starts whispering “soon” while you’re just trying to stand up from a couch, you’ll be begging for a latte with extra vitamin D and a side of moral support.
Until then, I’ll be over here—sipping my heated milk, rebuilding my dignity, and trying to hold this skeleton together with espresso, sarcasm, and whatever’s left of my pelvic floor.
Cheers. ☕️
