Stuck together like glue

That’s it, I am done with you. I’ve tried to be your friend for 32 years, Mr. English, but the friendliness is gone. I’m tired of your mixed messages, tired of your finicky rules, tired of your saying one thing and doing the complete opposite. I’m sick of your favouritism of the letter ‘u’ for some and not for others. I’m sick of your blatant love of capitalization one minute and loathing of it the next. I’m sick of being banned from words and phrases because suddenly you decide they’re a cliche. And by golly if I want to say “gotten” and “boughten,” I’m gonna say them. Because I’m sick of you!

So, I think I might have gotten 😉 a bit frazzled at work today. I sort of announced, in a room full of English lovers, that I was quitting English. My exact words: That’s it. I’m done. I’m quitting this stupid language. Bring on the Italian. Which kind of presents a small problem, given that I write for an English newspaper. But hey, I did want to learn a foreign language this year – and Italian is such a sexy language! – AND my company really should get on with opening an Italian bureau. I would so be perfect for the job, just look at me. I fit.

Today I had an email exchange with one of my work contacts who’s 15-year-old son has type 1 diabetes. We met when I interviewed him for a feature on juvenile diabetes shortly after he was diagnosed. And his mom has helped me greatly in the last couple of years with the many questions I’ve had in switching to an insulin pump, as her son had already been on the pump for a few years. Today, she told me that they’re coming up to his five-year anniversary of having the disease, which got me to thinking, my gawd this year will be 25 years for me!!! Wow. That’s like a quarter of a century.


Taking my insulin before prom almost 15 years ago!

We’ve been through a lot, diabetes and me. We started out bitter enemies, I hated him like I’d never hated anything before. When I got tired of the fight, I pretended he didn’t exist. I didn’t have to take my insulin, my mom’s plants liked it better anyway. I didn’t have to eat my prescribed lunches, the bushes were more than willing to eat them up, and I was more than happy to get by on a bag of chips, win-win. Then, we waged war. He threw me into convulsive fits, and I threw him into alcohol. It wasn’t until about seven years ago that I finally came to terms with the fact that the annoying little bugger wasn’t ever going away. So, instead of fight him, I embraced him. You know what they say, keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Well, we’re stuck together like crazy glue!

What anniversaries/milestones do you keep track of?

TONIGHT’S PILATES:

  • 5:15 p.m. BG before: 7.2 (granola bar .30 unit bolus)
  • Temp basal: -50 per cent
  • One hour: rack, mat, chair
  • 6:30 p.m. BG after: 9.1 (BG correction: 1.00 unit)

Oh man were my legs and abs working tonight. Pretty much everything I did, the rack, the hundred, some kind of twisty crunch type thing, my legs were quivering and my abs were convulsing the entire time. “That means they’re working,” my pilates instructor told me. Perfect words to keep me going 😀

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2 responses to “Stuck together like glue

  1. just saw a weird canadian film that agrees w/ you about hating the english language
    http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pontypool_(film)

    Great pic of rome

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