The second annual "No-D Day" was Friday, 7 October. I missed it in preparation for Yom Kippur.

This is the second year that the diabetes online community has dedicated a day specifically to writing about things other than, um, diabetes. Let's face it: most of the time our posts are so full of highs, lows, food diaries, d-meetups, medication schedules, glucose tests, and so on that we tend to lose site that behind those walls of figures sit real people. People with parents, spouses or partners, sometimes children, sometimes furkids, jobs, homes (we hope!), and a whole range of interests beyond the latest FDA letter drive for an iPhone-mounted glucometer or a low-suspend pump.

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Time and distance have also served to blunt not just periods of psychological distress, but also some of the everyday things I used to savor before.

As in, before I was diagnosed with diabetes.

Before I had diabetes, I didn't have to worry about eating a hamburger, pizza, Fettuccini Alfredo, or my favorite restaurant "cajun pasta" dishes. Now, any version I make at home is significantly modified to eliminate refined flours, reduce fats, and raise the vegetable count. You can hardly find the pasta in any of my "pasta" dishes.

Before I had diabetes, breakfast was a pint of orange juice and a bagel with cream cheese. Now, bagels are eaten in parts, and orange juice is a special-occasion item: a quarter bagel is one carbohydrate exchange, and a cup of orange juice is a huge portion of the daily calorie count.

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In a memorable sequence from J.J. Abrams' Star Trek, new Ensign James Tiberius Kirk exhibits an allergic reaction to a drug, his hands and tongue immediately swelling to seemingly-ridiculous proportions in minutes. While the sequence is played comedically, the reality of the situation is anything but.

Local insects congregated in the early evening rains before Hurricane Irene passed through our local area, taking refuge in window frames, sneaking through decades-old screens, and so on. Since our air-conditioning is limited to the bedroom, I am loathe to close windows unless and until necessary -- when the temperature drops, or when the incoming rain becomes strong enough to threaten whatever I have sitting near them. This has the side effect of making me a "target of opportunity" on those occasions in which those windows must be closed. Unfortunately, I'm allergic to insect bites.

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One of the odd observances of the Christmas Skeptic is the effect of today's gift-giving Santa Claus on the development of greed amongst children. The observation is somewhat paradoxical considering greed is considered one of the Seven Deadly Sins.

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One day. I'll learn to start listening to that voice, the one that occasionally gives me advice, the voice that I largely ignore. It's a tiny little internal voice, coming (I presume) from a tiny little internal smart guy. In my imagination, he dresses much better than I do.

Let's call him... Tiny Rob.

Now, to be fair, Tiny Rob has a pretty spotty record. Sure, he may have been the one who sent me to the doctor five years ago, but he's taken more on-the-job vacations since then than George W. Bush. Tiny Rob has left me to my own devices for months at a stretch, only popping by occasionally to ask, "So, what'd I miss?"

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Thirty-three years ago this semester, the frequent repetition of those words (or others to that effect) by high school classmates led me to take an extra semester of English in the spring term of my senior year. Anyone stepping onto my school bus and smelling the pungent odor of marijuana burning would have easily understood the reasons behind their lack of preparedness to study.

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