I met with my doctor this morning. I knew that my lab results would not be great and expected her to give me an earful. The verbal lashing that I expected did not materialize. Instead she told me that she has done what she can for me. She does not have time to play with me. The rest is up to me. Well, damn!!
My physical condition is a function of my decisions. No matter how much I may deny or forget this fact from time to time, my body is my temple. As far as I know, I only get one. I’ve mistreated mine and it’s getting a bit raggedy. It’s up to me to repair and and reinforce what I can.
Fried food–wings, baby, wings! Tortilla chips. Ben ‘n Jerry’s Half Baked ice cream. Bacon–only as an add-on, never kept in the house. Tacos. Chocolate and Peanut Butter ice cream compliments of Hagen-Daz. French fries. Alaskan King Crab Legs. Angel hair pasta. Hot-buttered popcorn. White rice. Angel salad. Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Enchilada casserole. Frequent companions during my life journey. Treacherous and shady. All of you, although I chose y’all as perverse gifts to myself again and again.
You’ve provided ease to my mind and dis-ease to my body on countless occasions. The truth is that I don’t need any of y’all. The easing of my mind is a responsibility of my conscious mind, not the responsibility of some naughty culinary offering. I generally don’t mind eating vegetables and lean meats. I love my starches, but they are tinged with duplicity as well.
I am coming up on the 20-year anniversary of my diabetes diagnosis and I am tired. I’m tired of being a human pin cushion and testing ground diabetes medications. My previous doctor came close to removing me from all of the meds, but I blinked. Why? I realized that my happiness and satisfaction with self did not come with a shorter waistline or a slimmer physique. Those two things come with the proper care and feeding of my body–well, not entirely, but those things really come on a plate or in a bowl. My temple.
How does one go about taking care of their temple? In this Information Age, countless answers await me in cyberspace. These answers await me on the bookshelf. At the gym. At a healthy eating class. Waiting for its opportunity to reign In the knowledge stored in my mind. On occasion I think about the film Osmosis Jones and the political race between Tom Colonic and incumbent Mayor Phlegmming for control of Frank. I imagine that the battle for control of me has raged for years.
Many battles have been won by my boys Ben & Jerry. Of course, the mighty spud contingent continues to whoop the salad party’s ass on a regular basis. These skirmishes will determine the quality of my life going forward. They will determine whether I approach my lancets and blood sugar monitor each day with trepidation and anxiety or with confidence and curiosity. Perhaps when Tom Colonic and his crew permanently turn the tide, I will be able to shrink back into those medium-sized shirts that I bought seemingly a lifetime ago. Perhaps, even, I can comfortably wear all of those shorts that I bought last summer. Right now, those shorts feel like a pair of hot pants or compression shorts. Not a good feeling in many ways.
The needed renovations of my temple cannot be driven by a “look at what I did” mentality. People love and appreciate me, so there is no need to put on a show to prove my worth. This time it will be because I love and appreciate myself enough to not go down like a $2 ho in an alley. Each time I pull into the drive-thru at Del Taco, I contemplate writing a book titled “Going Down…$5.72 at a Time.” That is the cost of my comfort food order, “Three double-beef classic tacos and a macho size fries, well done…yes, I want them crisp, not limp.” It has been 13 days since I’ve gone down that road and I hope that the folks at that location have enough time to forget my face and my car. They know me and each of them congratulated me when I bought a new car last year. Tragic. Trifling? Hmm, I’ll stick with tragic–it feels better. However, tragic is not a word that I want my godsons or my nephew to use to describe me in 15 years or so.
Time for me to get it back together and to keep it together.