I can barely walk this morning. I can feel every muscle in my legs and and arms. I want to bathe in Icy-Hot. I did seventy-eight burpees yesterday. What is a burpee? You start in a squat position and jump back to a plank, then do a push up, jump your feet back to your hands, then jump in the air and clap. Repeat. I am in fitness bootcamp. My trainer is mean. And she has a killer butt. I want one.
I eat a like a squirrel, combining small amounts of carb, fat and protein every three hours. A snack is half an apple, an ounce of cheese and a few nuts.
Why am I doing this? The long answer is this: if I don’t I’ll be diabetic. I was diagnosed with borderline type II diabetes last June. I control my blood sugar with diet and exercise. Both my grandmother and mother are diabetic. I had gestational diabetes when I was pregnant with Nora. I was warned that it was something I would have to watch for in my forties and fifties. Then I had an extremely stressful period where I was working about seventy hours a week and caring for my child and household. My body broke. I stressed myself to the point of diabetes. I got it at thirty-three instead of fifty-three.
I could take medicine to control my blood glucose level, but I know grind of everyday life would provide me with excuses for not eating right and exercising. I would have a crutch. So, I get on the treadmill and run two miles as fast as I can (which is not terribly fast).