Today, dear readers, is my 30th birthday. I was hoping this wouldn’t happen — my dream was that I would enter some sort of time warp and get stuck permanently at 29. (Though I suppose according to many women, that’s exactly what happens.)
Anyway, I bring this up because I was thinking this morning, as I ate the same breakfast I’ve been eating every morning for the past five years, that it would be really nice if diabetes would give me a birthday present. Nothing much — just maybe a day off. You know, so I’d wake up and reach for my glucometer and a little voice inside my pancreas would say, “Hey, Catherine — we hear it’s your big day. How’s about we take a break for 24 hours. You can be diabetic again on Wednesday.”
How sweet would that be?
Unfortunately, my pancreas didn’t do much talking this morning. And what it did say wasn’t good — I just checked my blood sugar and I’m at 197 after breakfast, despite the fact that I didn’t eat anything unusual (is it because I’m stressed at my impending mortality?).
Okay, so no birthday present from my diabetes. But that’s okay. I’m holding out for Christmas.
