My name is Geoff. When I am not droning here about my life, we do a bang-up podcast, which you can listen to by clicking on secret locations all over this website.
I have such doubts.
Not that I am a sissy, but I tend to overthink, overworry, and overconsider some things. Not useful things, like mortgage loans and how I treat other people, but silly things, like what is for dinner.
Since being diagnoosed with Diabetes, I have been afraid to eat at other people’s houses.
How will I know they only used the ingredients I think they used? What if they slip me a sweet tea, or there is sugar marinade on the pork? What if there are no vegetables? What if there is only pizza, or bread sandwiches with mashed potato centers!? What if there is PIE!??!
I am usually a wreck, and so I am slowly becoming a serial killer, staying in, cooking fish on the grill, hiding from you. My wife laments her decision to marry me, but that’s been going on since long before Captain Crunch came to Pancrea.
Before I got the Sugar AIDS, I had been invited over to a friend’s place, where his lovely wife was making Indian food most scrumptious. We were to enjoy Chicken Tandoori, Spinachy Cashew mania, and nine kinds of rice, all lovely and yum.
Now, after the math, so to speak, the night of the dinner had arrived, and I certainly didn’t want to cancel. I had to screw up my courage and get back to a regular life. People do this shit all the time!
I was a bundle of nerves. Will it look weird if I bring wine, but don’t drink? I lied, and said I was the DD. I am always the DD, now. It’s sort of neat, in a way, because I know I will not be making any uncomfortable calls to my wife’s mom at 2 am.
I digress.
We grabbed a dessert (Killer Chocolate Cake from Toojay’s, just because my insulin is insolent is no reason to punish the norms) and headed over.
I relaxed into conversation, my favorite planet. We grilled, talked. I watched people smoke, and kept my bile from rising. I heard about new people’s lives. I decided that, regardless of the situation, I would try everything.
As the meal assembled, we stood around a bit, and I felt that panic you always feel in a buffet line. FEED FEED FEED WHY ARE WE NOT EATING GODDAMNIT LET’S EAT NOW FOOD EAT.
I grabbed my inner voice and kicked him dead square in the Utz brand cheese balls.
We plated, and I took a bit of everything.
And therein, found success. I didn’t run from the rice, and when the bread was proffered, I took a small taste. I just kept my portions limited, and doubled up on the veg.
I snuck away to test my blood twice. Both times, under 100. Which is good, to those of you reading from Sarasota. I had after dinner coffee, which my host kicks ass at brewing, and watched them all eat cake. Not even a twitch of desire, and I even cut the damned thing.
I really enjoyed my experiment, and I am happy that I went. Maybe Diabetes is not the death of my social life. Maybe it’s just the death of that belly bursting hotsick feeling you get when you overeat.
You ever get a chance, Check out our new friend Etchie. He’s been on our show twice, now go listen to his!
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