My Wake Up Call

Waking up in the middle of the night with a low blood sugar is awful. For the sake of anyone who has never experienced it, I'll explain what it feels like. In short, it's like this.
You wake up, shaking so badly you feel possessed. You try to move your hand, but you can't remember where your hand is. It takes some heavy concentration before you finally remember that it's right there, attached to your shoulder, and that it's that thing that's shaking so badly it's making your whole bed vibrate.
I could go on and on about the dizziness and the dis-orientation, but I will spare you. I will tell you about the insatiable animal inside of you. Your brain is screaming "food! food! food!" and it is incapable of dealing with any other thoughts. So you eat. And you eat. And you eat. And you eat. And then when you're totally sure you finished eating, you eat some more, mostly because you are still shaking like a leaf.
If you want to properly empathize with me and how all of this feels, try setting an alarm clock for 4:30 am, and then get up and eat the entire contents of your kitchen, and then some. If you don't want to try it, you'll just have to believe me that you would wake up with a killer stomach ache.
So motzei shabbos, or I guess you could say early Sunday morning, I woke up at 4:30, feeling exactly as I described above. I checked my blood sugar, and it was really low. (45, for those interested parties.) I got up and got food, then more food, and more food, and more food....and finally went to sleep, feeling stuffed, but still shaking.
I woke up in the morning, and immediately i knew something was wrong. I was feeling really awful. The events of the night before had come back in a flash. No wonder! My stomach was exploding, I had lost an hour of my already shortened night, and I felt all around terrible. But then I started thinking about it...

Yogi Berra once said, "if I didn't wake up I'd still be sleeping." Most people think that is just another malapropism from the king of malapropisms himself, but for people with diabetes, that phrase has some real meaning.
If I didn't wake up, or to be more precise, if Hashem hadn't woken me up just then, I would still be sleeping....I'd never wake up. So while that whole incident was something I would really not repeat, I feel almost glad that it happened. I feel like it was Hashem's way of sending me a personal reminder that He is looking after me, and taking care of me, and that I'm in His hands, and I shouldn't worry.
Like I've said before, it's all a matter of perspective.

What The Stats Tell You...And What They Don't

Visitor trackers tell you a lot about the visitors to your site. For example, based on my analytics reports, I know that there have been three visitors from Barbados, and one of them came back for another look. And I know that there have been three visitors to my site from a google search for "wedding limosine hire". Whoever you are, congratulations on your wedding. Sorry I couldn't find you a limo.

But there is a lot that you don't find out from the stat trackers. You don't find out what happens when the person comes to your site. Do they smile to themselves and say "I agree"? Do they feel an inner sense of calm, having now gotten the inspiration they needed to continue through the day? Did they laugh, despite a deep state of depression that had been engulfing their entire being for days?

You also don't know what they look like, and who they are. While yes, I got two visitors from the United Arab Emirates, I have no idea why they were coming to my blog, and what they spent the average of 8 minutes and 32 seconds reading. And while I do know that someone found my blog on a google search for "should I marry someone with type 1 diabetes", I don't know what the end of the story was. After they spent over half an hour reading who-knows-what on my blog, did they say, "oh, looks like a person with type 1 diabetes can be a very happy and well adjusted person. I think I will marry them."? I like to think they did.

And that person who searched for "frum girl diabetes blog"...did they find what they were looking for? I mean, I am a frum girl, and I do have a blog. Does she have diabetes also? Or was it someone who knows me and somehow heard that I have a blog? And those people who spent an average of 18 minutes on my blog reading "funny shidduch stories"...what were they looking for? Were they just coming home from a bad date? Feeling old and left behind, and wishing for any date? And that person who was looking for info on the "shidduch scene", well, I feel kinda bad, because I obviously know nothing about it.

I also wonder what they were doing while they were looking at my blog. That person who was searching for fashion of navy skirts, well, were they sitting there in pajamas, trying to decide which skirt to put on? And that person that was looking for a dvar torah for their bridal shower...were they sitting there, all dressed and ready to go, when they suddenly remembered that they were supposed to say a dvar torah? (I was apparently not invited to that shower. I don't think I have ever been to a shower where they said divrei torah. But then again, it could be my fault, as she obviously didn't find one here.)

Then I wonder about their age. Google analytics might tell me that you come from somewhere like Malaysia, or Singapore, or Poland, or someplace that I never heard of, like Qatar, or even somewhere perfectly ordinary like Israel or United States. But it won't tell me if you are male or female. What you look like, what you do, whether you enjoyed my blog or not....stuff like that. Only you can tell me......

So please, do. :-)

Top Ten Things I Hate At Weddings

1- The Self Conscious Friend
I hate when there is a girl at the wedding that only knows you, and clings to you the entire time. After a while, when you've had enough of watching her breathe on your chicken, you tell her you need the bathroom. She of course, lacks the self confidence to go on her own, and assumed you do too. So naturally, she is nice and offers to accompany you. And that's when you lock yourself in the bathroom and vow not to come out for a week.

2- The Shleppy Chuppah
You know the kind I'm talking about. The one where everybody who can prove he is a blood relation walks down the isle. The one where they stop and play some version of "Im Eskacheich Yerushalayim" before the chosson steps on the glass. The one where the person that was "mechubed mit krias kesubah" reads really slow and carefully. Need I say more?

3- The Over Eager Waiter
This is true of all simchas, not only weddings, but I utterly despise when you are enjoying your vegetable soup, or your cream of chicken soup, and you put your spoon down for a second to pour a drink. Suddenly, in swoops the over eager waiter, and you are no longer able to enjoy that soup...

3- The Overly Tight Dance Circle
Now, this is bad for a number of reasons. Think: tripping over long gowns, getting stomped... But I have an extra reason to hate em. When I am dancing in a tight circle, and I feel the lady next to me's arm up against my stomach, and I start to squirm. See, that's the hiding place for my insulin pump, and her arm keeps rubbing it. And then...it vibrates, she jumps and looks at me like I'm wired for a bomb or something... Not fun. I preffer to stick to the outer, more spacious circle.

4- The Graceful Mom-To-Be
Nothing makes you feel dumber than dancing in a circle next to someone who is dancing exuberantly, while you shuffle along like a hippo, than a pregnant lady dancing exuberantly while you shuffle along like a hippo.

5- The Killer Heels
I've written about this before, but tonight at the wedding I had a scary thought. One day, someone is going to be rendered a lifelong cripple from the heels of an over-excited dancer, and they won't even have anyone to sue! How scary is THAT?

6- The Inconsiderate Dance Circle Talkers
You know those two... One person comes into the circle next to you. Suddenly she realizes that the person on the other side of you is her long lost friend. So she reaches across you, and yells a greeting over the the ear-splitting noise of the band. Her long lost friend yells back, and suddenly there is a conversation going on right over you, making you feel like chopped liver.

7- The Dizzying Kallah
These are the kallahs that make me vow not to have dancing at my wedding. I can't pin-point their problem, but somehow, the 30 seconds or so that you are dancing with her are bad enough to make you stagger out of the circle toward the nearest chair.

8- The Electrifyer
You are in a circle of merry dancers, minding your own business, when suddenly one of the Kallah's friends decides to shake things up. She barges in, right next to you, and starts kicking her feet and swinging her arms in an attempt to start this dance in your circle. The problems start when nobody in the circle knows this dance, and so they leave. Then you are left with The Electrifyer, proudly teaching the dance to two or three brave souls.

9- The Water Carrier
The Kallah needs a drink every now and then during the dancing, at least that's what my married friends have implied. But my close friends have always managed to signal to me or another friend, and the drink comes. But then there are the very thoughtful ladies who are sure that the kallah hasn't had enough to drink, and they tell you so. Worse though, is the lady who goes and gets the kallah a drink. So the kallah, being a nice girl who doesn't want to embarrass anyone, is forced to stop in the middle of dancing with someone, and take a sip of the well-meant water.

10- The Private Joke Shtick
This one is obnoxious. So much so, that I hate it even when I am in on the private joke. I mean, it's ok when the school friends have shtick, and the seminary friends and the college friends have shtick. But when two or three close friends of the kallah take a long few minutes for some private joke, I feel it's mean. It's a way of telling the rest of the people there "hey sorry but we are better friends with the kallah than you are."



That was just a start...I could go on all night, but I'll spare you.

What do you hate at weddings?

This Is Not a Post About Shidduch Resumes

The topic of Shidduch Resumes has been written about far too many times in blogsville. And, I would assume that most of the people who've written those posts have a little more insight into the matter, as they most likely have, at some point or another, succumbed to the pressure and made themselves one.

So I am not writing a post about shidduch resumes. I am writing a post about self respect and dignity. Well, maybe I am writing about shidduch resumes, but either way, I'm not trying to be insightful, so I guess I'm covered.

I was in my sister's apartment the other day, and I saw she had some girl's shidduch resume hanging on her fridge. Perhaps MP would be scandalized that it wasn't her resume on the fridge, but I was simply engrossed in the act of reading and mocking it.

The part that struck me as the most demeaning thing I've ever seen in my life came right after her name. It looked like this:

Shprintza Yenty Klein, 22
5'6", slim

Seriously? What the-? I couldn't help it. I burst out laughing. "Hey Ma! Let's make me a shidduch resume! It'll say: 'something different, 20(ish), 5'6"(ish), not slim.'"
You might think that sounds degrading, but honestly, is it really any worse? Is this like the girl's price tag? Skinny, slim, average, plump, and obese...what can you afford?

I guess the basic idea of shidduch resumes is not so bad. Like, here's a list of all my references. (See? I did a chessed and wrote it out for you! I'm such a tzadekes you should be extra impressed!) But there is a not-very fine line between a list of references and palpable evidence of a girl's total lack of self respect. And sadly...it seems people cross this line. Many times too many.

Also, if this were a post about shidduch resumes, I would probably mention something my friend just told me. She recently got married to a boy that is quite a number of years older than her, and thus, he had been in shidduchim for a while, and had probably been redt to every girl in North America at some point or other. He said that he has a looseleaf full of all the resumes from all the girls he's been redt to, and each one looks identical. Its as if someone had made a resume for girls to use in shidduchim and left blanks for people to fill in.
"_______ is a ___ year old bright girl with outstanding middos. Throughout her high school years in _______, and consequently her seminary year(s) in _______, she has been beloved by all of her teachers and classmates alike...."
I could go on, but I'm pretty sure I don't need to. You've seem the template, haven't you?

Anyhow, I have just composed myself a shidduch resume:

Something Different: Practically perfect in every way.

I'm pretty sure that's all they need to know about me.

Excuses, Excuses Excuses!

A man was driving down the highway in his brand new Jaguar. He was rather proud of it, and perhaps showed his pride with a heavy foot. Suddenly there is a policeman pulling off the side of the road, following behind him. A couple seconds later, and there are lights and sirens coming at him from the rear. Ignoring his common sense, he decided to test the powers of his Jag. He floored it, glancing in his rearview mirror the entire time. He was shocked, horrified and just plain scared to discover that the police car was keeping up the chase. Finally, the man realized he was beat. With a heavy heart, he pulled over to the side of the road, and waited for his moment of jedgement. 

The police came to his car, and gave him a look. The man's terror increased a bit, if possible. The policeman began, "Listen Buddy. It's the end of my shift. I have had a long and monotonous day. You give me an excuse for the stupidity you have just desplayed that I have never heard before, and I will let you off, scott free." 

The man looked squarely at the cop and said "Well sir, twenty years ago, my wife ran off with a police officer. I was afraid you were bringing her back."

The policeman smiled. "Have a good day!"

I said this joke over to my family, and got a laugh out of everyone, including my father, who never laughs at jokes. After I was made to repeat it for the third time, I realized that, as with all great humor, there must be some truth to it. When I saw this list of speeding ticket jokes, I concluded that I had to write about it.

You see, human nature is all about making excuses. Does anybody ever get pulled over and say "I am sorry officer. I was being stupid"? Not that I know of. Either they are late to pick somebody up from the airport, the store is closing in five minutes. Sometimes it's a funeral they are late for, other times it is a wedding. Sometimes their son is gushing blood at home and other times they simply need the bathroom.  

There are also more ridiculous excuses, such as "Well of course I was on my cell phone! People kept calling me!" Or, "That was a stop sign?!" Or, "Isn't the speed limit 75 over here?" 

Either way, human nature has it that we make these excuses. We sound dumb, but we do it anyway. It isn't our fault! It can't be! Anyone else's fault, but surely not I.

So I am headed to traffic court tomorrow. I could try to explain away my ticket, but the truth is...I don't see why I should. It was my fault. I was speeding. 

That being said, any advice on traffic courts? 

"Perspectives" On Shavuos

I was driving along the palisades parkway, finding the ride rather monotonous. My father's insistence that I set cruise control to 59 mph left me with nothing to do but watch the trees go by. Now, my mother is a nature lover, and to her each tree is this beautiful and unique creation. I embarrass her apparently, because to me a tree is...a tree. And I think trees have a hypnotic effect on me.
So anyway, by eyes were so glazed over I probably looked like I'd been eating donuts. A lane switch here or there, an occasional road curve, and that was it. Suddenly, a glance over to my left snapped me out of my comatose state. You know that gas station in the middle of the palisades, the one after the New York border, the one where you need to take out a second mortgage on your house just to fill up your tank?
Well, they had a big sign there proclaiming their gas price to be $3.05 per gallon. I did a double take. Did I see that right? I looked back, and there was no doubt about it. Gas there was three dollars and five cents. I was completely flabbergasted! It was less than a month ago that I was filling up for under 2 dollars! How could gas have gone up so fast.
And then, I wanted to retract my thoughts. I couldn't believe I had just thought like that. Although it feels like it's been years, it was not all that long ago that I called my father in hysterics, that I had just paid over $4 a gallon and what is the world coming to? A big drop in prices is something we take for granted, but then there is the inevitable incline, and suddenly we forget how lucky we have been for the previous few months.
You see, when it boils down to it, everything in life is a simple matter of perspectives.

So I wrote this all up on erev Shavuos, and naturally I had to connect the idea to shavuos. I was wracking my brain, trying to come up with a brilliant idea that would take this post and turn it into an inspirational tidbit that readers could take with them into Yom Tov. But the more I thought about it, the blanker my mind became. Shavuos? Perspectives? How do they connect?
And then it hit me. The answer was so simple, it ha been staring me in the face all along. See, it's not a chap. It just is. The Torah is the source of perspective. In fact, I would say that the Torah IS perpective.

Genius? Nah. Brilliant inspiration? Nope.
But sometimes the pure and simple truth is the most inspiring. Think about it. This Shavuos, when you accept the Torah, take that little bonus along with it: the perspectives that go hand in hand with the Torah.

Good Yom Tov! Enjoy your cheesecake!

The Makings Of a Perfectionist

"SD, mommy is waiting for you in the kitchen. She needs you to braid the challah!"

"SD, can you help me with this scrapbook page I'm making?"

"SD, I'm trying to dye this, can you help?"

These occurances all have a common thread. While my aquaintances often grimace when I take my time, completing a task to perfection, they find themselves coming back to me for help when it is important to them.

I guess you could call me a perfectionist. That would be the only explanation for behaviors such as waiting for my little sister to leave the room, so I can un-set the table and re-set it to my liking. And perfectionism is probably the reason behind the hour and a half it took for me to make lettering for my friend's baby's scrapbook. And when most people's challah looks like just...challah, yet mine looks like something out of a postcard, it all boils down to my constant need for perfection.
Sometimes people grumble. "Can you just hurry up and ice that cake SD?!? I wanna leave already!" But then, it's their friend's vort, and not just any cake will do. They want to make a cake that will scream out "don't cut into me! I look too fancy!" And somehow, I get drafted. Cuz I am the only family member who is capable of sitting there for hours and hours, putting details onto that cake that nobody will ever notice.
So last night, I sat there thinking about it. I was deeply engrossed in the act of putting canned cherry pie filling on top if a cheesecake. My friend was looking on with a mixture of admiration and horror. "Why don't you just dump the can on and smooth it out?" To me, it was simple. It wouldn't look good that way. So I sat there fishing the cherries out of that red gook. I was lining them up with such precision, that if anyone like me would cut the cake, each peice would have an equal number of cherries. It may have taken me three times as long, but looking at the finished product, even my skeptical friend was impressed. "That looks beautiful."
I am not saying all this to brag. Honestly, I'm not so sure it's a good thing. Obviously, I'd be better off with a balance. My philosophy, as you probably noticed, is that when you do something, you may as well do it ALL the way. So as I sit there toiling over minute details that most people would overlook, such as folding over blanket just so as I make my bed, I basically come to terms with it. This is me. Good, bad, or tedius. A perfectionist might get on your nerves at times, but when there is a kiddish to set up...call in the perfectionist and all is well.
At times, I think I am my own worst enemy. If not for my inner perfectionist, I think I would have been able to develop my artistic abilities. Because as it stands now, I pick up a pen to draw something, I don't like it, and I rip it up. And eventually, I run out of room in the garbage can and I give up.
On the other hand, I am my own best friend. It's the perfectionist inside of me that gets me the promotion at work, that gets me trusted with jobs that nobody else would be allowed to do.
What do you think? What is the line one shouldn't cross? When should a person look the other way and give up on having something perfect?

Sixth Month Musings

It's been six months since that fateful night when I decided, rather impulsively for a contemplative person like me, that I should really be starting a blog. (Ok, not a first blog, but a blog with more potential staying power than my numerous other blogs.) And now I've been doing some serious thinking.
See, as the sixth month anniversary of my blog started to show up on the horizon, I had a good reason to think back to the start of this blog. It was all very complicated.
It started when my company gave their staff a purim present: a $36 gift certificate to a local seforim store.
I sort of forgot about it. I buried it in the back of my drawer and figured I would do something very un-enthralling such as buy a CD or two. Then, it was erev shavuos, and I was passing by the seforim store. I had to be somewhere a little while after that, but I had a few minutes to kill. So I opened the door and went inside, just to look.
There was this big display near the door, of a new book that had just come out. The name was intriguing, so I picked it up. Miracle Ride? I looked at the subtitle. Someone fought a disease with humor? I was sold. I pulled out the then dusty gift certificate, and I broke my own rule about buying books rather than waiting to borrow my friend's copy. I was completely fascinated by the book, enough so that I actually went on to discover the blog.
I checked back on JAP's blog often enough, and then, one day, there was a post that mentioned diabetes. I commented on there, and then, in the ensuing commenting conversation (mostly between Little Sheep and myself), I decided that I would start a blog too.
In all honesty, I'm not so sure I would have started my blog had I thought about it a bit more. And if I had realized the extent to which blogging would take over my thoughts, I highly doubt I would have started. But I didn't, so I did.
Now it's six months after I originally started my blog, and I am confronted with a new dilemma. You see, my company gave out gift certificates again...and this time I better watch my step. I simply don't have enough brain capacity nor time to start another hobby that will consume so much of both of them.

But that still leaves me with the original question: what should I do with my gift certificate?

Is It My Identity?

I have just realized something. Online, as Something Different, my identity is like this. Hi, my name is SD, I have diabetes, I am frum, 20(something) years old, and I am not yet in shidduchim.

In real life it would be more like: Hi, my name is SD (no, that isn't my REAL name, silly!), I am 20(something) years old, I work at..... That's it. I won't divulge more, but suffice it to say, that diabetes is not part of my real life identity. I am not one of those girls who wear their insulin pumps on their waists. I am not one of those people who will be sitting around in a group of girls saying "ugh I think I am low, can someone get me some sugar."

I don't either check my blood sugar in public. Again, this might not boil down to secrecy either. Some people simply don't want to see it. (Ewwwww, SD, that is DISGUSTING. Can you do that someplace else?) But really, I am not very public about having diabetes. For an explanation, lets go, once again, to one of MWMF:

(scene: SD is sitting at one of her brother's shevah brochos. She has the good(?) fortune to be sitting right across from one of MWMF, the worst possible kind.)

MWMF: So, SD, what is your favorite subject in school?

SD: (who is 11th grade and doesn't think this question is age appropriate, and decides to give an equally age appropriate response) recess.

MWMF: [uneasy laugh] 

SD: Look! They are serving dessert!

MWMF: But....?

SD: [bites into her not-very-delicious-standard-sheva-brachos-parve-ice cream-dish] Yes?

MWMF: Is that good for you?

SD: [calls to MP at the next table] Is that an empty seat next to you?

That entire exchange actually happened (except for the last line, as there were no empty seats next to MP :-p). And that, in a nutshell(?) is exactly why I don't like too many people to know that I have diabetes. It is bad enough when things like this happen:

(scene: SD and her friends are fighting over the best way to split a danish)

Friend #1: SD, you can't have any! You are high!

Friend #2: Yeah, SD can't have. Now we only need to split it 4 ways. Yay!

SD: Ok, guys this is so not funny. What makes you say I am high?

Friend #3: You're always high SD. Now let's cut up the danish. In 4.

SD: Haha! I just tricked you guys! I bolused (took insulin) for the danish! Now if you don't gimme my share I will be low and one of you will have to give me a glucagon injection!

Friend #4: SD, that is totally playing dirty.

SD: Too bad. Give me my peice of the danish or else I will take more insulin and eat the whole thing.

Friend #1: Forget it. SD, go as low as you like. You aren't getting any danish.

Friend #2: Yeah, we just learned the number of hatzolah in my first aid course.

Friend #3: Um, guys, I dunno. Needles are really disgusting.

Friend #4: Ok, friend #1, you are gonna inject SD?

Friend #1: Of course not! Ewwww. 

SD: Ok, guys, let me know when you finish arguing. Meanwhile, I finished the danish.....

Point is, there is a simple equation. 

More people knowing about my diabetes=more useless advice=more aggravation

See,I don't need instructions on dealing with diabetes. Nor do I need chizuk. Nor do I need to hear you empathize how tough it must be, and how you know exactly what I am going through cuz your grandmother died from diabetes. Nor do I need to hear about your cousin who has diabetes and is actually married to a boy with very few issues. Really. It's ok. If I want stupidity, I can open a newspaper or something. 

So, to an extent, I try to hide my diabetes from the general population. Not to say that shidduchim has nothing to do with it. Ideally, as I have been instructed by all rabbonim I have heard from on the topic, it is best to go out with the boy first, without him having any knowledge of my diabetes, and then tell him, on or after the third date. (Now, frankly, that terrifies me. I have hears such horror stories about this method backfiring. Plus, I just don't know how people say it. "Uh, I have something I should probably tell you.") The logic here is that he should get to know SD, the person, without thinking of her as SD, the diabetic. That way, diabetes won't factor into the decision to meet, rather, it will be one of the considerations.

Please realize that I am totally not embarrassed to have diabetes, any more than someone should be embarrassed to have blonde hair. This is how G-d made me. This is what he wants me to be. But that doesn't mean I feel a need to wear a sign on my back that says "diabetic". Nor does it say on my business card: Something Different, diabetic. I don't even wear the medic alert bracelet mom bought me. (If you are reading this mommy, I am totally kidding. I wear it daily! Yeah right. But then again if mom is reading this I have bigger problems to deal with.)

On the other hand, I am not obsessively secret about having diabetes. I am not going to whisper to my chosson under the chuppah "oh, by the way, I have diabetes. Quick, break the glass" I won't be divulging this as a big secret to my best friend after I get engaged, and after she promises not to tell anyone. And I am not one of those people who will stay home from a class trip because I am afraid that my pump will set off the metal detectors and someone will figure it out. I believe, if someone needs to know...let them know. If you are my seminary roommate, and I might need you to force sugar down my throat one day, you should know. If you are my close friend and we spend hours and days together, you should know. If you are my boss...well, my mom thinks you should know. In short, I believe that this is just like everything else in life. A balance must be struck.

So back to my original question; is diabetes a part of my  real-life identity? I would definitely say that it is a very small part, if it is a part at all. Why is that? Simply because of the gross misinformation and the hideous misunderstandings that have become so commonplace among the society at large. And yes, as usual...shidduchim does play into it.

Fleish-itis

I am pretty sure there is no worse feeling in the world than that which you experience in the following scenario:

You come home from a long day at work. You had overslept in the morning, and didn't have time to pack lunch. There was something you had to finish, so you couldn't go on your lunch break to buy food. In short, you're starving.
You get home, and ravenously begin to look for signs of supper being made. Nothing. You look in the fridge, and all you see is a quarter of a piece of schnitzel from last night. Left with little choice, you grab it and devour it in two seconds flat. Looking around for more, you are forced to come to terms with the horrible realization that there is simply nothing else. It's right around then that you hear the front door opening. You peek your head out of the kitchen just in time to see your mother waltzing through the door, holding her prize: a steaming hot pie of pizza.

Picture yourself in that scenario. Now tell me, isn't it true? There is no worse feeling in the ENTIRE world, huh?