My navel-gazing drama-whore friend felt sick rather suddenly this afternoon. She described it as a kind of rapid wind-down in energy, and her limbs felt heavy, and she just wanted to stop. Honestly, she doesn’t know her D-ass from her D-armpit and was quite sure she felt low, so she tested. 326. There must be some tenacious pineapple on my hands, she thought.
She had been making pineapple salsa, this one.
Wash hands, retest. 278. Aha! Wash again, retest. 229. Aha! Wash again. (Washing really seems to be doing the trick!) She poked a different finger. 240. She shot her husband a dramatic and pained look from across the room. Something’s wrong with me and I feel sick and look at these blood sugars and I didn’t even eat a lot of carbs or anything. Her husband asked, in earnestness, if she would like to shoot some insulin. He was practically uncapping a syringe, gripping the orange cap between his teeth, and twirling his curly mustache. Only he was just saying things while half-watching The Internship. Still, she almost slapped him across his earnest face. No! It could kill me!
Was it the snow? The cold? The
two three cups of coffee with cream? The Excedrin? (That’s a lot of caffeine, she thought.) Were there going to be ketones and a trip to Hasbro Children’s Hospital during Snow Event Pax? But wait! She’s an adult—is there even a hospital for this sort of thing—a special hospital for adults who are not in labor? She took a deep breath. Tested with a different tester: 276. Wash, retest. 253.
Pee strips revealed all bodily interiors (sugar/ketones, at least) were normal—there is no pee strip for imaginations yet. Maybe the strips had expired. Why yes, they had: March 2013.
Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. I know we all spared a rose–that thing was a roaring success.