I finally called my doctor’s office to get the results from the insulin test I had a couple weeks ago, and I was not pleased with the results. More specifically, I was frustrated, disappointed, and shocked. And then I cried kind of a lot, and then I was angry.
Despite my current diet and the fact that I’ve been taking medicine every day for three months, my insulin levels actually went up. Not cool, body. Not cool. I felt like I had been doing a great job; I was proud of the work I had accomplished. I know all that hard work wasn’t useless, but for a few hours yesterday, that’s what it felt like. Like I had wasted the past few months of eating well and being more active… because if my insulin was going to go up anyway, why couldn’t I have eaten more Doritos?
So, I’m upping my healthy eating to an 11 and promoting Dave to my exercise enforcer. I should call him The Exercist, not to be confused with the Exorcist, of course. I should paint that on a t-shirt for him! The Exercist is a rough job because I will probably pout and throw things at him and require him to exercise with me each day. But hey, for better or for worse, right?
And if Dave’s going to be called The Exercist, I suppose 2011 should be called The Year of I’d-Like-To-Keep-All-My-Limbs-And-Not-Get-Anything-Amputated-Because-I-Got-Diabetes.