And, no, I’m not talking about my age (because sometimes I do feel like I’m almost a 100 years old…I digress).
I’m incredibly irritated right now—by the last e-mail someone sent me, by the magazines that are too close to my arm right now, by the marker that’s in front of the keyboard, by the fact that I keep having to delete typos and start over, by my palm, which stings from where I just tested it, convinced it was going to show me I’m dive-bombing into the 70s and below.
But I’m 98. And 15 minutes ago, I was 101, and an hour before that I was 120. So I’m not rapidly descending as far as I know.
But my head has that fuzzy halo. And I’m as cranky as Mr. Wilson. So my logical conclusion is that my meter is wrong, wrong, wrong. That my body is wrong, wrong, wrong. That the numbers aren’t computing to what’s actually happening.
And I have no choice but to break out the Wee Brie and crackers and have at it.
You have to play diabetes by the numbers, but sometimes you have to play by the instinct, too. Or the crankiness factor.
As always, more to come…