Happy merry joyus belated Kwanzanikuhmiss!

I’m not even Christian, and I still vote for sticking with Merry Christmas. Dirty heathens trying to mess up my simplicity.

Kidding, kidding… sort of…

I’ve been sick for almost a week now. We went to Granny’s place on Saturday for the in-laws’ Christmas party. It was, you know, one of those days. I got to spend 5 hours in a car with my favorite cousin-in-law for a 2 hour drive because she took a wrong turn and we ended up near Canada before anyone noticed. It was easily one of my all-time favorite road trips. Good people, great laughs, and zero sense of urgency.

But, because the universe needs balance, I also had the honor of seeing the sister-in-law who hates me, and seems to take some miserable pleasure in reminding me of that whenever she can.

Bare with me for a second as this train goes dangerously off track.

What the heck is with my in-laws not appreciating a single thing Granny gets for them as Christmas gifts? First of all, you know why she buys you socks, pajamas, thermal underwear, blankets, mittens, etcetera? Because she loves you and she cares whether or not you’re cold in the winter. Dude! She loves you! You’re in your twenties and you’re lucky enough to still have a Granny, much less a Granny who bakes apple pies, sends you hand-written birthday cards, and calls just to ask how you are. That’s awesome in and of itself!

Okay, she didn’t get you that Nikki Manage CD you put on your Christmas list. Who cares? She loves you enough to buy you adult-sized footy-pajamas with a butt flap, and you’re getting bent out of shape because the butt flap wasn’t hiding the life’s work of a two-bit alcoholic who fancies herself an artist? There are worse things!

Listening to the spoiled brat that is the make-believe 22 year old tell her Granny, “Oh, thanks, Granny. Apparently you’re too old to read now?” made me allllmmmmooooosssssttttt regret that vow not to kill.

And she’s not alone. Other than kids under ten, I honestly can’t think of anyone who didn’t complain about what Granny bought them.

Again, you have a granny who cares enough about you to buy you adult-sized footy-pajamas with a freaking butt flap — A FREAKING BUT FLAP– and you’re going to slather a nasty smile on your face and tell her thanks while directly implying that she’s old, broken, stupid, and uncaring?

Girl, I will drown you.

Note 1: People didn’t even complain in whispers and sympathetic glances. One male cousin even said, “Oh. It’s cute how you think I’m going to wear this. Thank God you included the receipt.” Because his new shirt was blue instead of grey. Who does that?!? And he’s straight!

Note 2: I don’t give a flying fig if I misspelled Nikki Manage’s name. She’s not worth the Google search.

One of Granny’s Christmas gifts to us was several pounds of homemade, handmade candy. One of my mother’s gifts to us was several pounds of vegetarian tamales. So what did we do when we got back home? Lived on nothing but tamales and candy for a week.

And man, could I feel it.

Looking back, it seems kind of strange that it didn’t occur to us, “Oh, we’re not feeling so hot, maybe we should go buy some real food. You know, like vegetables? Or that our not feeling so well could be in any way connected to our diet.

We ate. And ate. And ate. And it was glorious.

We’d decided that Christmas was going to be our final hurah. We ate chips, cookies, cakes, doughnuts, and hot chocolate like we haven’t in years.

An hour later we fell asleep sitting up.

On a whim, I checked my fasting blood sugar this morning for the first time since June. 281.

Yikes.

Remember how in June we found out that I was no longer diabetic? Then I stopped watching what I ate as much and started focusing on my anxiety issues? What was the worst that could happen? I mean, it’s not like I was diabetic anymore, and I was being relatively healthy without really caring about the particulars.

Surprise!

I have to give us a little credit, here. We didn’t even say anything when the numbers came across the talking glucose monitor. We just started throwing away anything in our house that didn’t strictly fit into the diabetic diet from a year ago. 281 is bad. 490 was worse. We have no interest in slipping back into old habits.

I’m going to eat like a kid and move like a kid, right? Well, kids with no ground rules might pig out on sweets during the holidays. But now that we’re past the holidays, I can be past that behavior.

Part of me is glad. Being diabetic was the one time I’ve ever really eaten how I should. It was easy– we just didn’t have that stuff in the house. I felt great. So I’ll just go back to it and we’ll see what happens. The identity of “diabetic” gives me a structure to work in. It lets me explain my socially awkward behavior in a way which doesn’t have social consequences. No, I can’t share your birthday cake. No, I can’t have bread, tortillas, or rice with every meal, or eat carb-loaded protein bars for breakfast. I’m diabetic.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Next to blindness, diabetes is the best thing that ever happened to me. Welcome back, old friend. 🙂

(But seriously, what’s up with ungrateful twentysomethings these days? Jesus.)

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