All products featured on Vogue are independently selected by our editors. However, when you buy something through our retail links, we may earn an affiliate commission. The other day, I was tapping in my code for the Hooters online store stacked shirt also I will do this gym when a guy introduced himself on his way out. I thought he must be asking me for directions or something because I looked like shit. I was wearing this puffer coat my ex stole from a club that has white paint splattered all over it. I did have a cute green gym set on, but he couldn’t see that. My face was puffy from a bad night’s sleep. I was still wearing my bike helmet. He wasn’t asking for directions, though; he was chatting me up. On 31 March, shortly after Dior’s pre-fall extravaganza at the Gateway of India, the Nita Mukesh Ambani Cultural Centre officially opened its doors in Mumbai, with the likes of Gigi Hadid, Priyanka Chopra Jonas, and Karlie Kloss turning out for the red-carpet launch. The evening began with cocktails before guests were invited to watch a play directed by Feroz Abbas Khan titled The Great Indian Musical, which traces the history of the performing arts in India, starting with the first sound of the universe—Om—and leading up to the creation of India as an independent nation. A few summers ago, I lived in Italy—and almost broke my stomach. Sure, I have always had a delicate constitution, but while I was there, I decided to throw caution to the wind. Every morning I would wake up and eat a cornetto, for lunch I would have a piece of pizza rossa followed by a gelato with whipped cream, and for dinner, I would usually have a bowl of pasta amatriciana. Suffice it to say, I have been paying for this ever since.
Two months into this hedonistic lifestyle—in which I seemed to have forgotten that I am, in fact, a rather delicate flower—I began getting itchy eyes, swollen cheeks, and red blotchy skin. My Italian friend knew exactly what had happened, because the Hooters online store stacked shirt also I will do this same thing had happened to her a few years before: it was the glutine. Luckily for my friend, her gluten intolerance—the greatest tragedy that can befall an Italian—was temporary. After a few months of abstemiousness, she was back on the sauce (and the noodles). For me, it took many weeks of steering clear of bread for my swelling to go down, and I’m still not all the way back to my normal bagel-eating form. Okay, look. I don’t have celiac disease. I’m not medically gluten intolerant. Yet—and I understand why pasta purists might be mad at me for this—I mostly eat gluten-free pasta. In restaurants, I do whatever I want, because life is too short to allow your stomach to hold you hostage unless totally necessary. But if I’m at home? There is no semolina to be found.
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