Six months into diabetes has gone pretty well so far.
I have learned to eat enough of a variety of safe foods that my once rapid weight-loss has sort of slowed down to a couple of pounds a week that like to come and go and come and go.
I stopped drinking alcohol, but recently retried drinking sparingly on a few occasions.
A small snifter of port after dinner went okay three weeks ago. A tiny jar of warm sake went okay weekend before last.
A 16-ounce Kirin Ichiban was a really bad idea last weekend.
Beer is the enemy.
It caused slitty eyes, fat bloaty face, and my excessive chattiness with a Japanese immigrant guy at the sushi bar who I didn't realize until later was busily staring at my date's breasts while he pretended to listen with amusement to my drunken blatherings, that little Jerry Lewis-looking, goofy bastard.
No more beer.
I developed a love for steamed soybeans that was rivaled only by the huge clouds of noxious gas they cause me to emit loudly at all the wrong times. So, I have to limit my soy bean consumption to days when I plan to stay in complete isolation. Even chatting on the phone is risky after a belly full of soy beans.
When I am forced to interact with others and I have to walk alongside them, I have to walk pigeon-toed while I hold my glutes together with enough force to emboss the Lord's Prayer on a penny.
Exercise may be beneficial and healthy and release dopey endorphins, but I still fucking hate it. I have to trick myself into it with elaborate rituals, ever increasing new exercise shoes and togs, apres exercise treats and a written mileage log on my wall calendar.
Still I find my exercise bike looks far more attractive with freshly laundered shirts hung on the handlebars than with my ass smashing down on the gelfoam seat.
Anyway, soon I will have to see my diabetes doc and watch him eye my glucose-o-meter with great suspicion and suggest I try to drop my 127 glucose average to a level similar to a 92-pound Olympic ice skater's numbers. My compliance makes him greedy and maniacal. He always wants more, more, more.
Yeah well, I want a Philly cheesesteak, an order of curly fries, a chocolate shake with a classic Coca Cola on the side and a big slab of cherry fudge pie for dessert.
We can't always get what we want, Bub.