Sometimes, two different areas of your life come crashing together.
In this case it was fashion and diabetes.
I was collecting multiple garments, which I’m sure I heard taunting me audibly saying, “You can’t live without me! You need to try me on! I am so adorable!” as they threw themselves at me, leaping from the racks into my arms as I walked through one of my favourite stores. I reached the change room and patiently stood in the zig-zagging line, knowing that every moment spent there would be worth it when I found that perfect new outfit.
As I reached the front of the line, still awaiting my turn, I decided it would be a good time to check my blood sugar.
(Really Susie?? Being next in line, with an arm load of garments I didn’t own, I picked that moment to draw blood?!?) As you may or may not know, I am no rookie at this. I have had diabetes for 36 years. I can check my blood sugar while jogging on my treadmill, driving, (don’t tell the police!) or while flying through the air after bungee jumping over a cliff without a rope. (Perhaps maybe not that last one.) But even though I can get a blood sugar result in those instances, it doesn’t mean it always goes smoothly.
Of course I got called to a change room stall just as my meter was flashing my reading, so I walked with my allowable six items all the while zipping up my meter case and following the sales girl.
I was so excited to find a new treasure.
Quickly I shut the door behind me and started ripping my clothes off.
After no success, I slowly got dressed again and exited the little room. To my horror, there, in a perfect trail leading right to my room from the front of the line up, was a trail of used bloody objects – all my blood sugar strips that I always just throw back into the case when I am done testing. This was a large changing room area so, of course I had been led to one of the furthest away from the line. Let’s just say, the trail was a long one. There were probably 25 strips pointing right at me. So now what?!? Should I pick them up, making it painfully obvious that they are mine? Or do I book it for the door, knowing full well it is painfully obvious anyway?! I booked it.
So I will probably forever be known as the “bloody object litterer.
(The average person wouldn’t probably know that they are glucose strips.) Forever 21 will never be the same and since I am a frequent flyer (buyer? 😉 and there is no way to disguise my height of six feet and platinum blond hair, I will have to suck up the embarrassment and hold my head high.
So folks…that is what happens when (my) two worlds collide. It is not romantic. It is just humiliating.
Oh well. It wouldn’t be the first time. 😉