Dear Lord, Not the Sugar

Recently I was diagnosed as being diabetic, Type 2. It seems my apparently single-minded effort in trying to ruin my body has finally come to fruition! Well, now it’s time to buckle down, get serious, and start taking care of myself. It stands to reason, right? I spent the first half of my life really enjoying myself, now I need to be serious, get a bit more responsible and start looking after me. No problem right? Just like training for football in High School or maybe doing that health challenge just out of college. I got this.

*Three weeks later* Holy shit, I most definitely do not get this. At the beginning of this week, I worked out not just once, but twice in a day, splitting my exercising up so I got over one hour in, but not to overdo it. On Thursday, my ass still hurt. Literally. My posterior hurt so very much, the groaning when I stood made people think I might have soiled myself. Every time I got up it hurt. Four days later and I was still sore. Before, I could not have worked out for a year, gotten back on it and would have hurt a little the next day. A few months ago I pulled my bicep because I couldn’t be bothered to lower the weight on the bench press machine, which had nothing to do with the cute mom working out next to me. I swear.

Then there’s the food. Tonight I went out with some friends, had a wonderful time, drank two drinks over the course over two and a half hours, had a dessert, and here I sit now with my heart rate well over 110 BPM because of all the sugar I consumed. I’ve worked out, dieted, and been a good boy and I’ve gained weight. I’ve come to the conclusion that this getting older business is no joke.

So, now I have a choice: I can either accept what I have and who I am as I am now or I work harder, become militant about the whole thing. Treat everything as a part of a program. Really buckle down. Yeah, that’s totally my MO. Mr. Discipline. Riiiight.

I saw a picture of a very overweight drag queen being loaded into an ambulance with two people dressed up as Easter bunnies and two people with dwarfism dressed as Oompa Loompas accompanying her. Its caption was: If at the end you aren’t being hauled away in lingerie with two crying Easter bunnies and some Oompa Loompas, you didn’t live hard enough.” Except that’s obviously not true, but that sentiment can be seen in many different forms. But besides odd body aches, random hairs on parts of me I didn’t know could grow it, and a distinct disdain for these kids’ damned music, one of the other things I’ve gained from my advanced age is a smidgen of wisdom, and what I’ve learned is two things. One, happiness is relative. What was once enjoyable to me no longer is. Drinking, staying up late, eating literally anything, and my casual relationship with exercise. Now, if I want to enjoy my time I need to get to bed at a decent time, I need to eat responsibly, and I need to exercise with regularity. I can’t just start doing something with no real plan and make it work. I am not twenty or thirty anymore, I’m forty, and I need to grow up.

The other thing I’ve learned is that. . . It’s . . . Well damn, I forgot. I guess the memory is the first to go. Damn. Oh well. My heart rate has dropped, it’s after midnight, and I’ve got a date with a walk first thing in the morning. Time to get my blood sugar leveled out. Goodnight!

Originally published on Stupid Optimism

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The post Dear Lord, Not the Sugar appeared first on The Good Men Project.

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