Today I had my appointment with the nurse and the dietitian to learn how to manage the diabeetus. Overall, I don't think it is going to be a big deal. And it's sad how excited I am that I can eat salad dressing that is full of fat and delicious ranchy goodness.
(Yes, I am prepared to eat these words at a later date should I be required to use insulin.)
(Also, I might have to stop calling it diabeetus, because I swear to god I almost keep saying it that way. Wilford Brimleyepper, indeed.)
The nurse and dietitian both seemed to think that my levels should be controlled by the diet, because while I did technically fail the 3-hour, it wasn't the worst case scenario. They said it was more like a D- instead of an F, so the rest of the session was filled with grade bargaining on my part. I got points added for only gaining 19 pounds and for typing out my eating patterns because apparently that type of anal behavior is greatly appreciated by them. I left there with a C-.
All of my tests so far have been in the acceptable range, and it kind of feels like a game - what can I eat that I like and still get a good grade on my test? This is a game with which I am very very familiar. I just usually play like this: what is the least amount I can study and still get an A?
I hate our work elevator. It is painfully slow, which makes for longer than necessary social avoidance on my part because I hate small talk. Especially with strangers. Yesterday was a nice little day despite the diabeetus dealings and I was in a pretty good mood.
So I get in the elevator and of course it stops one floor down. Which is awesome because that puts about 15 seconds more between me and sweet sweet freedom. 15 seconds too many on a normal day, especially so when you're stuck in the elevator with Inappropriate Pregnancy Comment Lady.
You know, it's really overdone, isn't it? The whole blogging about inappropriate comments about pregnancy size? I can't resist, though.
I mean, people have been having babies since THE BEGINNING OF TIME. It's not like something that Apple just came out with that old people can't understand and young whipper-snappers are into. If you exist, your mom got fat, or someone got fat on your behalf. Maybe it looks like I shoved 3 Macs down my pants, but I promise: it's just a real live human being inside my enormous joey pouch. No chance of electric shock or anything.
It should not be surprising to me that Inappropriate Pregnancy Comment Lady took one look at my stomach and asked me when I was due, and then feigned complete horror that I had two months to go, going on to ask if I was having triplets hahaha. Triplets!
I should be over it by now, and I should handle it like a grown up, but I was tempted to ask her if her big fat old lady ass was having triplets, and then point out that I probably weigh less than her despite the fact that I am EIGHT months pregnant. The best compromise I could find was to ignore her the rest of the way down while she asked me questions and made comments about how slow the elevator was. She must've been sweating the look of loathing on my face and began to fear for her life as she considered the speed of the elevator and the sheer mass of my very pregnant and wide girth.
Maybe she was doing math problems in her head? Like, if an angry pregnant woman the size of a freight train is 12 inches away from me and we still have 7 seconds left in this elevator, how much longer can I expect to live?
Tell me - what is the worst comment you received while carrying the sweet miracle of life?