The Back Story. Chapter 5

In an effort to stop blaming everyone else for my misery and as a part of the "you can't spend the rest of your life nailed to the sofa" campaign, I went back to school and became a real estate agent and I loved it.  LOVED IT.  Still do.  It appealed both to my social side, (you meet lots of interesting people and most of the time that's a good thing), my competitive side, (negotiating my client's interests zealously makes me feel like a pit bull in a pretty pink collar) and its such a demanding job, I could focus all my time and attention on it while ignoring some of the more troubling questions in my life.

Unfortunately, Real Estate is an industry that is singularly focused on FOOD!  Every builder, lender and insurance agent wants a piece of your business and because its illegal to offer you bribes or kick backs, the "I want your business" burnt offering" is food.  Donuts, bagels, cookies, candy, pizza.  You name it.  Food was always in the office with some vendor's face smiling at you from the business card taped to the box of morsels.  You've never seen a whinier bunch of people than an office of real estate agents standing around the breakroom, miserable, on the rare day where there wasn't something just to have a little "bite" of or from which to pinch off a piece just to see how it tastes.  I developed a great philosophy about it too.  God, surely, doesn't count donated food calories against you as it would be rude not to eat the gift.  Clever, don't you think?  I just love a good justification.  There's also the luncheons, coffee's, wine and cheese previews that we put on for other Real Estate agents to get them to come see our listings. Let me just say, if all you're offering is a carrot and fat free dressing, not one agent will show up.  Put out barbeque, fried chicken and multiple desserts?  You'll have every agent in town show up, fork at the ready!  I put these luncheons in my daytimer religiously and would have had to be on my death bed to miss one.

Fast food also became my devoted friend.  I was always in my car on the fly.  It was easy. It was fatty delish.  It wasn't nutrition but it sure was abundant. McDonald's Happy Meals were my life's blood.  Meal AND a toy, how much better can you get!  Seriously?  Diet soda was like crack and I was downing several 20 ounces cups a day.  Forget water, that had no buzz factor. French Fries were a food group and grease became a vegetable.  I mean after all, olive oil, corn oil, and vegetable oil come from vegetables, RIGHT?

I worked hard.  I was successful.  I didn't pay attention to anything else.  By 2006, I weighed 157 pounds.  I was fat.  I was sassy.  I had stopped giving a crap.  Everyone gets old.  Everyone gets fat.  I was a mess but I wasn't about to take a look in the mirror, both the real one and the metaphorical one, for fear of having all my happy little justifications stripped away and finding myself, naked, and alone with reality.  SCARY!  So, I ignored it.  There was nothing wrong with me.  The end.

Except I was tired.  All the time.  No matter how much sleep I got, I just couldn't ever seem to cast off the fog that enveloped my energy.  I worked long hours.  That must be it!  My job was stressful.  That was the reason!  I was 48.  You slow down when you get old, right?  Surely, that would explain it.  Tired. Tired. Tired.

How is it that you can get so used to something that it becomes invisible?  Not once did it ever dawn on me that my tiredness might be a function of my overall health.  Not once.  I never considered that hauling around fifty extra pounds and drinking three glasses of wine a night might, just MIGHT, have something to do with my lack of energy.  It seems so idiotic now, but when I finally went to the doctor to see why I was so tired, I thought it was because I was probably anemic.  I still find this amusing, by the way.

I hadn't been to the doctor in the years since Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever.  I didn't go because i didn't want to know what they had to say, to be honest.  I've already told you how pleasant my reaction to the word obese was and that was 15 pounds lighter.  Besides, you're only sick if you go to the doctor.  I was a fat miserable load who was just tired.  I wasn't actually "sick" until I went to the doctor.

And I was sick.  And I wasn't anemic.  What I was.  What I am, is diabetic.  Actually, to be precise, my doctor explained that I have the full metabolic trifecta.  Diabetes, High Cholesterol, High Blood Pressure.  Well, aren't I just the Belle of the Ball.  Not exactly what I was expecting to hear.  I sat on the examination table, while my doctor delivered the happy news, crying like a baby.  I remember saying I didn't want to be the woman in the numbers.  My doctor mumbled a few lines of understanding, handed me booklets on managing my trifecta of fun and sent me on my way with another appointment scheduled in thirty days.

It was one of the worst days of my life.  Where to start.  I still had the eating plan from when I was gestationally diabetic, so I pulled that out and started following it.  I ate a little better.  I drank a little less.  Small changes, really.  I mean who wants to make big changes if you can sneak it past inspection without huge amounts of effort?  And it worked.  Well, sorta.

Thirty days later, my sugar was down.  Blood pressure and cholesterol were still up but I ignored that.  Come back in another thirty days.

The next check up was good too.  I was on a roll, baby!  All of my numbers were showing real improvement and I remember my doctor saying, "you're never going to have to worry about your diabetes".  BINGO!  Exactly what I wanted to hear!  Just like obese, diabetes was just a simple medical term.  I had my get-out-of-jail-free card!  Wonder Woman was back!

The first sign I was going to come off the rails was the fourth month when I cancelled my follow up appointment.  I didn't reschedule.  Why should I?  I had kicked diabetes' ass.  I knew what to do!  Five months.  Six months.  Seven months went by.  My weight started to inch back up.  I started making deals with myself.  I'd be good for three months so I could trick my A1C, then I'd make an appointment so I only had to hear nice things about my progress.  I just never managed to be good for three months.  I never went back to the doctor.  I didn't want to be scolded.  I knew.  I KNEW.  I just didn't WANT to know