I caught the burn-out bad this fall. Numbers were a mess. None of my adjustments worked. Those first few weeks, caught in a hellish spiral of syrupy glucose readings, I felt wronged. Hot shame burned my delicate face. I desired vengeance. This aggression would not stand.
I was emotional! I was enraged! I was...fat?
I got heavy. Real heavy. There's photographic evidence. It was that sneaky weight. I hate that sneaky weight gain. Somehow it manages to distract you every time you sense something afoot, and by the time you figure it out all your favorite pants are too tight.
I gave up. Or, more appropriately, I gave in. Oh, I still took my sugars and dosed like a compliant patient, but it was all a ruse. I ate what I wanted, went to the gym when I felt like it, and pretended I didn't care.
Oh, but inside, inside I wept the bitter tears of a defeated diabetic.
I was also busy. I'm talking Ryan Seacrest busy. I know. Wah. Wah wah waaaaah.
Things have changed.
I am back, and I have this scarlet woman on the run. Run, you chronic and incurable minx, run!
Now I'm ready to EAT MY...I mean, share my feelings. I want to share them. They are delicious. I would eat them all, but I'm totally full on this plain chicken breast and low-fat yogurt I ate for lunch. And dinner. No, really. You should try these feelings. They taste like salted caramel and dreams. JUST LET ME WATCH YOU WHILE YOU EAT THEM.
Slower. Chew slower. Make those little moans that annoying people make when they want to broadcast to everyone at the table how much they love what's in their mouth right now. God, yes. Right there. Let me get my camera.