Whose Round Is It Anyway?

I couldn’t post last night because my house has an internet connection circa 1990. It chooses as and when it wants to work; something I really need to get fixed if THIS is going to work.

So the only other viable option on a Friday night was playtime. Yes, I’m blaming a lack of internet for my current state. It’s lunch time and so far all I’ve managed to ‘make’ myself to eat is corned beef. Straight out of the tin, with a spoon. Please don’t judge me.

Alcohol will forever be the diabetes downfall. Of all the tricky decisions, pitfalls and judgements diabetics have to deal with, alcohol is Public Enemy Number One.

You can consult your low-carb manual and easily discover that vodka diet coke is a helluva lot better for you than a vodka Red Bull. It ain’t rocket science. But the real situation of being in a busy bar that doesn’t have time to cater to your diabetic needs is a little different. Plus the fact that no matter how many times I tell myself sober to behave, the more drunk I get, the less I care. That may make me the bad guy, but that’s just how I roll.

Taking insulin out to compensate for the plethora of sugar-laden drinks on the go isn’t really an option. I come home with my lip gloss about as often as I come home with my dignity (I’ll leave it to you to decide how often that may be) and losing my insulin is not a game I’m willing to play. I always have an extra dose before I leave the house, and usually remember to have a bit more when I get in depending on what I’ve consumed, but it’s very unscientific, stumbly, blurry guess work by that point.

Take last night for example. I met a guy for the first time. Completely innocent may I add; a school friend of my housemate – a fabulous lady we call Miss C, who moonlights as my partner in crime. Said guy was unimpressed at my sober state. So was I to be fair; it was about 2am and I’d put in some serious leg work to that point. “This is not allowed,” was his judgement. Fine by me seeing as he was offering to pay to ‘fix’ the matter. I’m a poor journalist.

I feel like I really need to put in some sort of disclaimer here… I work hard, I play hard. That’s pretty much the gist of it. I go out and drink once a week and I have a good time. I don’t get leathered to the point I can’t remember my own name, and I certainly don’t advocate anyone else doing the same. But I’m talking about real life here. There’s no point dressing this up. I’m here to tell it like it is, otherwise there’s really no point in this blog whatsoever. Aaaand scene.

So back to said man, busy club, lots of people, music, funsies being had. “What do you fancy?” he asks (once again, we’re talking about drinks here. Mr G, you can read on). “Just half a Strongbow,” I say thank you please. Man rolls his eyes, tuts, waves a tenner in my face. “What do you realllly want? Jagerbomb?” Cue utmost look of horror on my face, which he read as ‘I can’t drink them they’re far too strong’, not ‘I can’t drink them I’ll end up in hospital with kediacidtosis’. So I tell him, to avoid any further tooing and froing, that I’m diabetic. He literally laughs in my face. That’s a new one. He doesn’t beat heroin boy, but it’s fair to say this wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.

At this point you may be thinking this man is the vilest creature that ever graced the planet. He’s really not, actually, but this completely proves my point as to why all this is so damn tricky. “Don’t give me that,” he laughed. “That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.” Phew! Sighs of relief all round. Although I did have to actually get Miss C to verify that I was in fact telling the truth about being diabetic; man was having NONE of it. Finally we settled on a vodka diet coke. Good diabetic, brownie points for Jen. Lovely. Until agreed drink appears with a side of sambuca. Oh, good.

Me and Miss C. Perfectly normal girls, then.

So what do we do here, kids? Turn it down and give it to someone else? Or shun the halo and drink up? The thing is, I didn’t want to turn it down. I wanted to drink it. Because I was out, having a good time and we were all doing a shot. So down it went. Did I die? The evidence would suggest a negative. Does it go against all low-carb, let alone diabetic principles? Pretty much.

So everything I’ve been banging on about in every post thus far just goes out of the window, just like that, just coz I’m tipsy? Gasp, shock, horror.

Of course it doesn’t. But I’m human. I’m 23 and I go with the flow. One shot is not going make me blind, as long as I compensate with insulin-based shots elsewhere. Which I did. To be a ‘perfect’ diabetic is not practical and it’s certainly not fun. What I want to be is a better diabetic. Something I appear to be starting to do. In my college/uni days I would drink anything and everything. Alcopops are the root of sugar evil; I was the queen of them. I’ve learnt what I can handle, and what I can’t. For Jen, dry white wine is ok, red wine’s a winner, light beers are good, dry cider in some quantities is a go, spirits and diet mixers are a diabetic gift. I’m getting there. You may have judged me for the corned beef, but it has no carbs, okay? And right now I’d take it over any of the above.