In the spring of 2001, I found myself suddenly single. One day - POOF my social structure had disappeared. So I started to run.
I ran a lot. Joined a running club, made friends, ran a marathon for the American Diabetes Association, ran another just to prove that I could. The following spring I even put a toe into the dating pool.
One problem. My A1C was hovering around 12.
Then I met A., by far the luckiest day in my life. Not only would she end up as my wife but she also would be the one who healed my broken diabetic soul.
So here I am, three and a half years later, more in love than ever, A1C hovering in the high 7's, and 25 pounds heavier.
Everybody knows that relationships and marriage travel with about 10 pounds of nesting weight, but I also gained 15 pounds of what A. and I called diabetic weight. When running an A1C of 12, it's really hard to keep weight on.
That first summer of A., she had rented a little place in Ptown for the season. It would be the summer I finally got in touch with "queer eye" side. I was known to be a little preppy. A.'s first comment to friends about me, "Well, she wears a lot of pink." That summer, A. introduced me to the world of cool gay boy clothes and the Lilly stayed in the closet.
That would also be my last summer of wild blood sugars swings, ketones that would leave me feeling like hell all day, and day long periods of not testing.
But eventually the leaves started to fall, the A1C started to drop, and I became a nester. By next summer I had gone up a few pant sizes and my fun gay clothes stayed in the box under the bed. I've been through two summers now without my G-Star capri's.
It's really the only thing I miss about our first summer in Ptown.
So Monday, I was back at the gym and A. was there with me.
(A. is doing it for her back, I'm there for the D, and we're both there for the pants.)