“The reasonable man adapts himself to the world – the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man.” -- George Bernard Shaw

A high school friend wrote this in my yearbook, with the exhortation to "be reasonably unreasonable". I've often said that one of my particular, err, talents is to see things from a perspective that is markedly different from everyone else's -- "to turn things on their ear", as it were. While I often gain perverse pleasure from finding a previously-unexplored viewpoint and making it public -- very public -- this trait often allows me to see important truths that may have been hidden to others, and to present them in a relatively reasoned manner.

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So word is getting around a little that I moonlight as a portrait photographer. (::doing the happy dance::) I was pleasantly surprised to get an email from a co-worker on Monday asking if I could do some Photoshop work for an image he wants to use for his Twitter page dedicated to marathon runners for Team Diabetes for the P.F. Chang's marathon in Phoenix.

Which naturally turned into him trying to recruit me to run or walk a marathon or half marathon. "Then," he said, "you can be part of the one-tenth of one percent of people who can say they've participated in a marathon."

Ugh. I loathe running. I always have. And the thought of even walking a half marathon (13 miles!!!) makes my head spin. Could I do it? Yes. Do I want to do it? No. A mini-marathon? I'm all over that.

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Ah! It's a new day and my fasting blood sugar comes in at a sweet 103 mg/dl. "Not too shabby," I think, maybe feeling a bit arrogant.

I go about the business of the day - exercise, hop in the shower, dry the hair, feed the cat - get in the car for work. Drive 30 of the 45 minutes it takes to get there.

And then I think - caught in a wave of abject panic, "Where is my pump?"

I do the pat down, you know the one. I pat with flat, frantic hands at my bra, my hip, my waistband. And I know then exactly where my pump is. On the shelf in the bathroom, pumping insulin into oblivion instead of into me.

"Man." I think. I also think. Alright, maybe I say aloud - a number of colorful words not suitable for a family website.

And I head back toward home, calling the office to let them know that I've been delayed. (READ MORE)