Some of you may (or may not) remember that last year about this time I started commenting occasionally about losing weight. Losing some weight had been a necessity for some time, both due to appearances and health, but I had a really good incentive to get serious about it (because serious health problems are not enough of a reason) when my son decided decided to get married.
Obviously I wanted to look my best for the wedding since, as the mother of the groom, I was
completely unimportant the most important person there. Clearly, the way I looked was the most important part of the day for these two.
Seriously. Don't let the picture fool you.
At any rate, I was quite pleased as I
I've enjoyed getting new clothes and tailoring others down to fit me again. I know I look better than I have in a long time. But just recently I discovered something that sucked a lot of the joy out of my new look. I've discovered that I'm just as bad at math as I ever was.
You might wonder what that has to do with anything. It had a lot to do with everything when I realized that I had not subtracted properly and I'd actually lost sixty pounds instead of seventy. And please don't comment that it's still an accomplishment. Yes, I know it is, but would you be happy if you learned that you'd lost ten less pounds than you thought you had? I didn't think so.
In addition to that disturbing news, my weight loss has dramatically slowed for the last few months. My doctor ran more blood tests and discovered that my sugar levels are still too high and, in his words, my body was still struggling toward diabetes. On the heels of that distressing revelation, the doctor assured me that I wouldn't be getting diabetes on his watch. I was more than ready to cheer on his determination and his efforts (since I had none of my own) until he told me what he wanted to do to get my sugar under control.
It seems there's a new medicine on the market that helps control sugar levels. A new, injectible medicine. I must say, he had my attention when he started talking about injections. I started shaking my head just that fast. I couldn't imagine trying to stick myself with a needle every day.
The doctor assured me that it wasn't that big a deal, and that the medicine was a great incentive. I'd say so. I was already plotting what promises I would make about getting my diet back on track if he'd hold off on the injections for a while. Unfortunately, he wasn't convinced. And he said that as long as my sugar levels were off, trying to lose weight was an exercise in futility.
At least I'd be getting some exercise.
After showing me the injection pen and the tiny needles, I finally agreed to give it a try. I must admit, though, that my motives weren't strictly for my own health. Indiana Jones has a huge fear of needles and the thought of his face when I told him I'd have to give myself injections was enough to make me say yes.
The medicine is working, my weight loss is back on track and now I have lost almost seventy pounds. Plus, Indiana shudders and groans every time I mention something about the injections. I guess it's a win-win. Or maybe a loss-loss.
What would you call it?