I woke today to discover an alarming incident had slipped into my otherwise painfully vanilla life. Some fiendish doppelganger not only accessed my computer but set up a blog, a website. Oh. My. God. Against my will, I was forced to become one of those freaks. Images of me accrued in my brain; pale and pasty, cheesey-poof crusted fingers hacking away at a keyboard with righteous indignation at the latest conspiracy theory du jour. I had a moment of sugar-hangover induced paranoia at the thought of becoming one of these blogging creatures from the deep dark depths of social ostracism. Would I soon be tweeting on the state of my underpants, blogging about the lovely sheen of my tinfoil hat? I felt like I suddenly needed a shower to wash off the dirtiness of a life spent at bingo halls on Friday nights from cresting every inch of me.
How the hell did this happen? Isn’t the blogosphere the domain of the chronically single and perpetually indignant? After a few deep breaths into a paper bag, some forensic sugar sleuthing led me to a number of disturbing discoveries. Chocolate-crusted thumbprints on the keyboard, empty candy wrappers in the garbage bin. Then a new possibility occurred.
Perhaps this explosion of personal cyber-verbosity was the result of a recent sugar binge. Riding high on an insulin/ice cream/candy combo, could it be that I registered a domain name and stuck my shiny mug on the interweb for any lollygagging cyberfreak to view? It wouldn’t be unheard of. I’ve oft committed less than reputable crimes in my sugar crazed madness—there was that night I decided after a round of Toffifee that the mullet wasn’t really such a bad look, and had to fight my friend for the scissors in my hand pointed towards my coif. There was the pet scorpion that suddenly looked like a cute and cuddly ball of snuggles after a Tropicana bender. In short, sugar had led me down the wrong path before.
Following my path of destruction, I noticed the scattered Reese’s Pieces shrapnel on the carpet (sniff—what a waste), the chocolate fingerprints on the wall. Presumably after falling into a sleep punctuated by sugar-binged nightmares, I woke up in the morning with my cat sniffing curiously at the crusted sugar on my face. Many writers of the past fell into the embrace of sweet lady alcohol to “supposedly” elicit their great works (she said with a great eye roll). Could sugar be my secret weapon?
A little background. The day before was my birthday. The big 2-6. I remember at 6 thinking that 26-year-olds were geriatric freaks getting fit for walkers and artificial hips. One stylish sneaker in the grave. At six years old, when I was diagnosed with Type One Diabetes, each day seemed a daunting proposition, what with all the scrubbed strangers trying to stab me with sharp things. The only concern I had was for landing well-aimed kicks at medical professionals, at the very least delivering a little scuff to their sparkly white coats. And now, holy sugary bloodbumps Batman it’s twenty years later.
You’re probably wondering how a Diabetic has a pseudo mid-life crisis. Well let me tell you.
After realizing I have lived twenty f*%^&$! years with this thing, I felt an onslaught of happiness, sorrow, and accomplishment, as well as some other emotions only attributable to a good old fashioned freak out (or banana hour at the monkey cage). After a cheese-drenched veggie burger and plate of onion rings swept down my gullet, I ate the first banana split of my life.
And oh my god the banana split.
Sweet fancy Moses the banana split.
This was my mid-life crisis little red sports car. To hell with it, this whole Diabetes thang. I had lasted this long, I was going to do it with a bang. A great big whipped-cream-soaked, caramel-drizzled, hot-fudged bundle of ecstatic yumminess. We came together like two lovers in a black and white film from the twenties, passionate groping after forces had conspired for so long to keep us apart. My boyfriend looked up from the ice cream carnage spackling the table of the Denny’s restaurant (free birthday meal!) like a bystander at a crime scene. I gave him a warped smile beneath my whipped-cream mustachioed face.
“N-n-napkin?” he said, fear punctuated by nervous giggles.
When I woke up this morning with the aforementioned cat set to lick my face clean, I had a moment of zen clarity. One of those moments that can only truly be reached when one is minus pants, minus dignity, and curled in the fetal position, totally opposed to the idea of leaving the warm mecca of the blanket fortress erected around oneself. My cat walked an inch from my face and barked an angry “I want more treats now!” meow in my face with stale kitty breath. At that moment I realized something. The party’s over baby, back to the grind. I stuck my head nose-to-nose with my cat and meowed back. I hear you brother. I pine for treats too. Artificial sources ain’t going to make you write. Sorry sweetheart, them’s the breaks. Perhaps the sugar was to blame for the burst of exuberant blogging and techno-tomfoolery. . . but most likely not.
Reality slammed back with a vengeance. I bitched to my cat about the elevated morning blood sugar, cursed as I rounded the corner to the washroom and caught the tube of my insulin pump on the door handle, pulling me back and ripping out the insertion site (this sounds a lot worse than it actually is, for all you non-Diabetic, so called “normal normies” out there; it feels like ripping a Bandaid off a particularly hairy spot on your arm).
I said a slew of mean-spirited things to my oatmeal on the table. I looked at its smug, steaming, fibre-rich healthiness and wanted to slam it into the wall and curse the fact that it wasn’t a big greasy Egg McMuffin™ or a dripping, syrupy Grand Slam®.
So I’ve decided that whatever the spurious sugar-binged origins of this blog, I will keep it. More than likely, there will be similar incidents in the future where I seek to scream, shout, and run giddy through the streets riding the high of a sugar rush. Hopefully not.
Hopefully this whole cyber extravaganza will help me work the Diabetic rage (not to mention some pent-up writer’s angst) from my system and become a fully functioning member of society. Perhaps help me write without sugar stimulation. At least before another sugar binge leaves me high on glucose and running pants-less through the streets à la Archimedes.
Or maybe not. Note to self: buy more pants.
Have a gander, possibly a giggle, and eat a banana split for me. For now at least, I’m on the wagon.