(Prior posting from my old webspace)

Well, it’s been a few weeks living with the diabetes, and I gotta tell you, it just keeps getting more interesting by the minute.

I thought I honestly had a handle on what I was doing, the path I would follow, and knew what to expect.

Then, Mr. Murphy paid me an unexpected visit. You see, Mr. Murphy is big on law. In fact, HUGE on HIS law. And I am the one person on this planet that knows first hand just what that law means, and how unexpectedly his law can ascend to my position in the grand scheme of things…usually right square between the eyes.

So…take one dumb short fat dude, add misplaced confidence, shake and stir until fully vexed.

I woke one morning, feeling fit and ready to conquer the cosmos. I impaled and I applied my polyurethane leech to my finger. I then sampled the nectar of my pen pal, good ol Mrs. Insulin. She’s a lovely lady, but ya gotta watch her. She can get temperamental if you don’t speak nicely to her. And I wanted to be real nice to her.

I go about my day, active and feeling comfortable that I will dine on grass and leaves, for health and glowing complexion. My five stomachs fill themselves with straw and clover, and I beam from within, knowing my choice of repast will surely have me on the cover of GQ magazine next month.

I feel great, so I forgo driving that railroad spike through my finger, midday lest it sully my bright and sunny mood. I’m going to dinner, and I wanna shine. I do my best polish and gleam, take the belt sander to my heels so that my sandals don’t have their usual parched shredded tundra sticking out the rear of them, and bleach out my craggy yellowed toenails to ensure those that might glance earthward don’t mistakenly identify me as “Son of the Chickenlady”.

I join my new found friend, and we head towards the feed. Upon arriving, I note that I’m not quite my usual sunshiny self. In fact, I’m feeling a little less than focused. I shake it off, blaming the fact that I’m in close quarters with the Dalmer party seated behind me, and the entire cast of “Wild Kingdom” dining on their chosen kills sauteed in honey garlic. My buddy and I order, and I choose good sensible choices. I’m being a good hobbit tonight.

Upon finishing, all I could think of was escape. The walls were closing in, and the shredding of antelope and gazelle got to be too much for me. So we trot off into the sunset, looking for what’s next.

I’m putting a good show on, but I’m very off by anyone standards. My usual chorus of insanity were but a mere mumble, and I couldn’t even get my boogie down to a minds eye game of “Where’s Waldo”.

Well, my suitor took my cue, and we took a lovely evening stroll down by the waterway. I, at this point, am really starting to see fireworks, and they’re not from anticipated emotion. I’m thankful for the fact that there is concrete and metal at elbow height. It’s all I can do to keep from doing my best Ester Williams in the middle of the bog like canal.

We walk and walk, I stubbornly insist we walk a certain distance, knowing I’m growing heavier and more in love with green grass as my Serta by the moment. Be damned if worms are to be my foam support. I want a nap, dammit!! But I keep smiling, and slurring my words as my friend becomes more and more alarmed.

At this point, I’ve gone from Dynamic Dave to Diana Ross in “Lady Sings The Blues”. My eyes half cast, I’m crooning through slurred speech “My Man” for all the world to marvel at.  I could have auditioned for the stage version of “Barfly” and won the role just by being there. Cos now my chorus is weaving back and forth in my rapidly deteriorating noggin, slurring objections and epithets at me like a group of drunken sailors. With this, I lurch, I careen, I stumble, and I do a sidewalk version of the hustle.

I’m now learning what Issac Newton discovered that fateful day a few centuries back. Gravity sucks!!! He got it on the noggin. I’m heading earthward, noggin first! I gotta commend the choice in arm decor I chose. He’s not only very understanding, but familiar with the big “D”. In fact, he’s one of it’s chosen people. And he’s patiently guiding me towards the finish line.

I reach the lobby of his hotel, seemingly trying to keep what’s left of my decorum and pride together as I slide and stumble into it’s grand lobby, complete with guests that I’m praying aren’t too focused on the Rubby Dub that just fell into their field of vision. I’m having such a good time. My head is spinning, my legs are cast iron, and I’m about to know what forced unconsciousness is all about.

Whitney wasted all that money on crack. She is WHACK!! All she needs is diabetes. Mess with insulin and you have an instant mind bender, free of charge.

Well, after being pulled through the lobby towards a bank of elevators, I’m done. I’m going down. There is little I can do about it. I’m in the seat on the roller coaster, and Sybill is at the switch. Somehow though, he patiently gets me propped up, and into a safe zone. I collapse. It’s not pretty. It’s not fun, but I know I’m ok. I know my chorus ain’t too keen on arguing over who gets to speak next. They just want to sleep.

My savior returns with nectar that soon starts to revive me. It’s strange, but I could see the spirit of Anita Bryant in front of me, singing about sunshine trees and fruit pies. Perhaps she and Shirley McClain were traveling through the stratosphere transcendentally  and she decided to pay a visit.

I learned that I didn’t respect the gift of insulin from my rescue wagon. As my willingness to be svelte at all costs had shown me, insulin should have been less of a presence, considering the upgrades I received in activity. But I chose to be the rebel child, and she bitch slapped me into next Tuesday. I was taught not to talk back to my elders. Too bad I didn’t learn to listen to them as well.

So.. I now keep my bottled sunshine with me whenever I go forth into the world. I also forgo the diet, and keep to the program. I may someday come to understand what I am living with…but today, clearly, is not that day.

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