For the past several days, and especially yesterday and last night, I was just not myself. I was disoriented, and weird, and I could sense that but I didn’t know why. I went off like a rocket over spitballs. I misplaced my flash drive and drawer key and I still haven’t found them. I taught yesterday, and I’m about to do so today, off the cuff. I’ve been winging it. This isn’t like me. (I mean, who WOULDN’T be upset without a drawer key? Insert innuendo here.)

I’ve had one of those blood sugar lancet kits for a long time, but I’ve never used it. I’m not exactly afraid of needles, but the thought of sticking one into myself just wasn’t appealing. Oh, icky-poo, not for me. Besides, I’m not sick. How silly.

My rheumatologist took enough blood to sink a ship every month, anyway. Why bother at home?

Last night I bothered. It was 297.

At my age, I really thought the sweats, etc, were pre-menopausal. Who wouldn’t? I knew I was “a little bit” diabetic, but I think I have bypassed “a little bit” and graduated into “full blown.”

297. That’s a bigger number than 60, which is normal.

I guess I’ll head to Marsh and buy a few heads of lettuce. Sigh.

As for what I said to that student yesterday. . . . . I’d tell you but I’m still so ashamed, I just can’t. Maybe later, but not yet.

I always surprise myself, as much as I surprise the ‘victim,’ when I get lashy. I’m such a pathetic wuss most of the time, that people don’t expect it from me. So when it does happen, it’s spectacular. I am mostly calm about things, or I find humor in them and laugh, or I just keep my feelings to myself and let them out on paper later, so when I turn vicious, it scares me. I have a feeling the other students in the room were a little scared, too. I really don’t think that idiot student who did it, was. But I was. At myself.

The room was full of adults, but I was supposed to be THE adult.

297. Yikes.