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A funny thing happened this week. I turned forty.
Okay, perhaps it wasn't so funny.
The morning of my birthday, I took a long moment in front of my bathroom mirror. My apartment complex management was kind enough to replace the subtle lighting over the mirror that we'd had for two years with new, direct lights that look fancy but which might be more appropriate for an interrogation than the gentle transition from being asleep to facing the reality of my new life as a forty-something. Looking in the mirror, I swear I could hear the faint creaking sound of my bones as they calcified.
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A funny thing happened this week. I turned forty.
Okay, perhaps it wasn't so funny.
The morning of my birthday, I took a long moment in front of my bathroom mirror. My apartment complex management was kind enough to replace the subtle lighting over the mirror that we'd had for two years with new, direct lights that look fancy but which might be more appropriate for an interrogation than the gentle transition from being asleep to facing the reality of my new life as a forty-something. Looking in the mirror, I swear I could hear the faint creaking sound of my bones as they calcified.
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For me, the desire to live to 100 is all about quality of life. Frankly, living to any age is about quality of life.
I don't know that I considered my mortality much until I was diagnosed with diabetes. I was 30 when I was diagnosed. Which means that at the traditional retirement age, I will have lived with diabetes for 35 years. That's a pretty long time. Live 20 years past retirement, and diabetes will have been part of my life for more than half a century.
One of the toughest parts of living with diabetes for me are the intangibles--I
feel fine now, but that doesn't mean that my internal organs or my eyes aren't feeling the strain of high blood sugars and extended periods of time living with a chronic disease.
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I was just sitting at my desk working on an extremely important project (
FDL standings) when a co-worker stopped in his tracks as he walked by my desk, squinting into my eyes.
"Whoa! What happened to you?"
"Huh?"
"Did you get beat up?"
"What? No." I didn't know what the hell he was talking about.
"The purple under your eyes. Looks like you got beat up," he continued.
"Oh, that?" I said, touching the corner of my eye near the bridge of my nose. "No, that's just lack of sleep, I guess. That's what getting up every night at two or three in the morning will do to you."
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