It was New Year’s Eve, the first New Year’s Eve since I’d been diagnosed with diabetes, and I was invited to a dinner party. I’d avoided such wing-dings since my diagnosis the summer before because I hadn’t yet learned how to deal with the limitations of my diabetic diet at dinner parties hosted by people who didn’t spend every minute of their leisure time boning up on the carb counts of pheasant tetrazini with goat cheese, and crème brulee with durian fruit sauce.
But this was different. My host also had type 2 diabetes, so I figured I’d be able to find at least something to eat. It was exciting to be getting all gussied up for such an occasion. I raise sheep and two juvenile delinquent goats in the boonies, where we wear jeans and barn boots much of the time. Dresses usually live in the attic, along with check stubs from 1962, programs from concerts I attended in 1958, and other useless stuff I can’t even remember.
But this was New Year’s Eve. Somewhere I managed to excavate an elderly party frock and all the accoutrements to go along with it: slips and pantyhose and that sort of thing, things I hadn’t used in many a moon. I’d lost about 30 pounds since my diagnosis, and I felt very suave and sophisticated as I put on my fancy party duds and headed off into the winter night.
The dinner was fabulous: fresh grilled salmon with a low-fat sauce (we were both on the low-fat ADA diet at that time), lots of green vegetables and salad, and a delicious compote of fruit for dessert. After dinner we headed for the living room, where we broke into small groups, chatting in front of a roaring fire.
I was feeling very glamorous and sophisticated with my new svelte shape. All I needed, I thought, was a long cigarette holder and longer nails and people might confuse me with a visiting movie star instead of the sheep farmer I really am. The distinguished gentleman I had just met was discoursing on some erudite topic and seemed interested in my opinion. Life was good.
Suddenly he looked at my feet and gasped. Now I know my feet are small, but I didn’t really think they were so tiny that they would elicit gasps of amazement. I mean, they’re not bound or anything.
Then he said in a fairly stentorian voice, “Is that your slip?” I looked down. Sure enough, there, nestled around my ankles, was my half-slip. I hadn’t worn it since my diagnosis, and because I’d lost so much weight, the elastic was no longer sufficient to hold it up.
All conversation stopped. The room was still. Everyone stared at my slip. What should I do? Well, I didn’t have much choice, so I said, “Oops,” picked the slip up, and stuffed it into my pocket. (Thank goodness my dress had a pocket.) Conversation in the room gradually resumed.
So much for glamor and sophistication. The erudite gentleman wandered off to speak with someone else, a woman who was apparently able to keep her underwear on, at least in public places.
Then I hid myself in a huge bean bag chair where I was pretty certain I wouldn’t lose any more underwear and spent the rest of the evening boning up on the carb counts of tofu, okra, and textured vegetable protein. No one mistook me for a movie star.
MORAL: If you’ve lost a lot of weight, check the elastic on your underwear before venturing out in public places.
Published On: May 05, 2007