Two days of meticulously measuring my food and insulin and it's going .... okay. I've actually found myself eating less just because I don't feel like doing the math. I think I've tapped into the next diet craze by forcing people to complete a word problem to "earn" snacks. Next time you walk past the pretzels on top of the fridge, you have to decide if they're worth factoring in both African and European swallows into your answer. My blood sugar is 124 at the moment (recovering from low blood sugar about two hours ago) and I'm about to have a sugar free hot cocoa before bed.
The Puddin' and I have different ways of operating in the kitchen. His involves unplugging everything short of the fridge to prevent burning the house down and mine involves leaving everything plugged in (and occasionally left on) until I smell smoke. And for years now, he's been silently coming behind me and unplugging the toaster and the kettle, diligently saving me and the pets from certain doom. And everytime I have to plug something back in before I can use it, I smile wistfully. We have a system and it works.
The other night we almost had a fight in our sleep. It was 4:12am and Rich had gotten up for his middle of the night bathroom run. I'm a bit of a heavy sleeper (i.e. a plane could land on our house and I'm not sure I would wake up for it) so his forays don't usually disturb me. But this time, about 5 minutes after his return to the bed, I lurched out of bed absolutely convinced that I heard the toilet running. Somehow in my sleep the sound had dragged me out of DreamLand with the fear that we were wasting water and could be doing so for at least three more hours before I was scheduled to get out of bed.
As I sat bolt upright in bed, Rich grabbed my arm. Hard. He pulled at me as if I weren't sitting up, but instead being extracted from the bed by kidnappers or aliens. While still mostly asleep, I yanked my arm away, grousing, "Let go of me! God, it's just the fucking toilet." That seemed to sate him (or at least intimidate him enough that he was more concerned about his crazy girlfriend than any bad guys in the house). I sleepily stomped off to the bathroom to jiggle the handle only to find that I had apparently made up this plumbing mishap and the toilet was, in fact, just fine.
So while we do so well during waking hours, during the night my compulsiveness over wasting money and natural resources and his paranoia over boogeymen collide head-on. Should our bathroom fixtures ever become aggressive, though, we will totally be kicking ass!