There was no way I could play it femme fatale aloof. I could barely keep the smile off my face. It was like a first date. We held hands as he ordered our wine and the room churned and spun with a mass of people but I couldn’t focus on any face but his, though we shared a bed every night.
The meal arrived. We talked animatedly through our meal, exchanging opinions between bites and making our way to the bottom of the wine bottle. Plates cleared, we finished the wine. It’s almost midnight at this point, but the conversation is energetic and animated and we’re not ready to go home quite yet. The waitress brings the bill but he sends it back gently with a request for two espresso martinis.
It was my very first martini. I drink about seven instances per year and I very rarely stray from the vodka/cranberry juice/orange juice combination, as I’ve got that one figured out on the diabetes front. But tonight there was that wine. And my first martini. So all bets were off. Bloodsugar tested. 183 mg/dl. Quick unit bolus to bring me closer to 120 mg/dl. Take a sip.
Should I be drinking, being a diabetic? Should I avoid indulging once in a while for fear of something happening? Is it enough that Chris is armed with the knowledge of how to test me, bolus, and treat any fluctuation in bloodsugar levels? It is okay for me to be out and drinking with my boyfriend? Is it the responsible thing to do?
My mother’s words resonate. “I want her to come to the end of her life and not feel like she missed out on anything. Not on anything at all.”
We leaned across the table towards one another and talked about the movies we’d seen over the last two weeks. We talked about my book. We talked about the website and the distribution deal and the Big Move to NYC. We talked about the moment we met. We talked about the precarious first date so many months ago.
Two more martinis were ordered. The Girl is in a deliciously inebriated state. Chris is happy to see his girl having such a good time. Bloodsugar tested discretely at the table. 147 mg/dl. No bolus necessary.
We held hands.
We closed the restaurant at two in the morning, bundling up to brave December’s cutting chill. A quick stop at a nearby party brought us closer to home and confirmed my status as RI’s Happiest Drunk Girl.
Home brought the comfort and warmth of our Christmas tree, with a cat asleep under its branches. The room spins but he steadies me with his arm. I test. I have a big snack before I go to bed. He lies next to me, brushing against the pump on my hip. It’s normal to him now. And to me.
I fell asleep, warm and safe.
Drunk on my first martinis. And comforted, knowing that I will not miss a thing.