The Sweet Life
Do you know what happens when you dredge up memories of an unwelcome diabetic birthday dessert from more than a decade ago? God gives you diabetes. Seriously.
Considering the alarmingly crappy genes, particularly on my father’s side of the family (in college, my aunt Belia’s foot rotted from diabetes and rather than have it amputated, it festered and she died. The story is funny to me, both ha ha and strange, because it seems so unreal and antiquated for the late 20th century), I just assumed that the disease would eventually catch up with me. I kind of thought I’d at least make it to my forties, though.
What irks me most is that diabetes is viewed as an affliction for fat, stupid people, primarily minorities with the exception of Wilford Brimley. All the literature I was given was illustrated with smiling blacks and Latinos and a list of foods you can still eat at McDonald’s and Wendy’s.
I certainly don’t think I’m special but I don’t need to be told about walking (I’ve been working out 3-4 times a week since the early ‘00s), I haven’t touched a Big Gulp since I was in grade school and I eat Whoppers like never. Of course I do like pork belly, curries, cocktails and dulce de leche and sit in front of a computer all day like total diabetes bait. I just get frustrated because while I have slowly chunked up over the years, I’m not Biggest Loser, gastric bypass obese and the people I see on TV don’t even have high blood pressure or diabetes. What gives?
No longer being able to eat (much) sugar and starch does not fit into my pro-rat year. Not one bit. At least I'm not being made to take any medicine or deal with needles yet. I pretty much need to lose the twenty pounds I've been trying to get rid of for an eternity and see if that does anything. I almost cried when I saw my favorite seasonal treat, green Hostess Sno Balls at CVS last week and had to ignore the beauties, and it bummed me out not to be able to partake in cornball bagel Friday at work.
There’s no way in hell I’m going to start eating boneless, skinless chicken breasts and steamed broccoli seasoned with Mrs. Dash. And I’ll keel over before allowing Splenda into my life. Who knows, though. I always though brown rice was for assholes, and this weekend I was the asshole who asked for brown rice with my Sichuan food and only ate a quarter cup.
I’m still going to eat good food. This site will not turn into Goodies Never, but I don’t feel like there are any online role models for people who like to eat well, adventurously and happen to be diabetic. As far as I can tell there aren’t any. Vegans and the allergic have their place in the food blog world (as well as the inexplicable volume penned by lawyers, ex-lawyers and Asian girls) but it’s not like I want to read about their foibles. Diet talk is too uncomfortably close to Lifetime territory.