Over the last few days, I’ve logged plenty of airplane travel hours, which are hours I don’t enjoy for a dozen different reasons, one of which being how rotted out my hands become after just a few hours on a plane. I know the air is low on humidity, which doesn’t help maintain hydration, which turns my hands into these wizened old lady hands that crack and bleed even if I’m gently pushing the lever to put my tray table into its upright and locked position.
Most of the time, I forget to bring hand lotion with me and by the time I arrive at my destination, I need to wear gloves to cover my mangled hands, but this time, I remembered. (Forgot insulin, but remembered hand lotion. Not exactly a even trade, but still.) So I spent the majority of the flight with plenty of lotion slathered on my winter-ruined hands.
What the what? Sitting at my seat on the plane, I was baffled. My CGM had me at 98, not 386 – what the hell was going on? No sweaters on my teeth, no desire to pee every fifteen seconds, no need for water constantly pouring down my throat.
(I know you already know the source of my idiocy.)
I washed my hands, and checked again.
For almost three decades, I’ve been told to wash and dry my hands before checking my blood sugar. Clearly, hand lotion is filled with honey.