Not 61, not 52, not even 74: 124. Just a bad mood.
Bubs flop out on floor halfway through fencing tournament. Bigfoot impress self: stay calm, cool, enter emergency mode. Low blood sugar! Test. Bubs get 124. Damn.
Bigfoot fondest wish blame bad sportsmanship on blood sugar, but it not possible this day. Fencing teacher encourage Bubs finish tournament, feel “sense of accomplishment!” Reluctantly agree.
Small people fencing fun to watch, only because when score, see cute little gauntlet fist pump and hear “yessss” through spooky hornet mask. At end, Bubs win green “Sportsmanship” ribbon. Bigfoot have hard time not laugh when Bubs cry, “I didn’t even win eighth place!” Tears streaming down red, red face.
In car, test blood sugar again: 71. That low, but not low enough explain away ferociously pissed off mood. I HATE FENCING! and YOU HATE ME, THAT’S WHY YOU MADE ME COME! and FENCING IS SO STUPID!
Bigfoot ineffectually say over and over, “No, it’ll be OK. You know I love you. Come on, it’ll be OK. Oh, honey. You know that’s not true” in allegedly soothing voice, try channel Ma Ingalls. Half Pint freak out sometimes too.
Meanwhile, Bigfoot complete 2011 insurance medical supply hoarding cycle. Most impressive: lancet tally—1,122. Probably last three years, since Bigfoot, Bigfoot spouse, and Bubs never remember advance barrel until lancet too dull penetrate calloused fingertip.
Stocked
