Today I had one of those lows. Like, a cross-eyed, cold sweat, can’t-stand-up-straight, what-day-is-it-anyway, super-sucky kind of low. Even suckier, it happened at a client’s office.
We were nearing the end of a meeting when I felt that particular sort of hunger starting to set in. I knew we’d be out of there soon — and that I’d just eaten a banana — so I decided to suspend my pump and focus on retaining consciousness for the last 15 minutes of the engagement.
As my vision started to get a little jumpy and my stomach growled, I remembered the wise advice my first endocrinologist gave me. “I don’t care where you are or what you’re doing,” he told me. “If you start to feel low — and I don’t care if you’re talking to the President of the United States — stop what you’re doing and eat something.” With what brain power I had left, I weighed my options. I could: a) interrupt the meeting and ask for a Coke; b) try to end the meeting early; or c) travel back in time to earlier that morning, and put some edible substance in my purse besides the completely useless Pistachio Grove Blend I was toting around, and then eat that.
Just as I began to wonder how many carbs were in a tube of Strawberry Lip Smacker, the meeting ended. My coworker and I made a beeline for the lobby, and I asked the receptionist if there was a drink machine around. (At least I’d brought change with me.) There was a machine, she said, but you had to have a badge to access it, and she couldn’t leave her post because something something about American Idol and her back-up was watching people sing. Or something.
“But there’s a cafe in the other building,” she said.
I knew of this cafe. And I knew that the building she spoke of was two big parking lots away. So I popped a complimentary Jolly Rancher in my mouth and headed over. Twenty-ounce bottles of Sprite and rolls of Lifesavers loomed in front of me like mirages, guiding me toward my destination. (I’m pretty sure I saw a vulture or two following us as well.) When I reached the cafe, it was all I could do to count out $1.75 and wrench the cap off of the Sprite bottle. I sat down to drink it, and that’s when the sweats hit. My grown-up businesswoman pants, my cardigan sweater — even my hair — were soaked.
By the time I felt well enough to make the drive back to work, I was exhausted. And damp. I spent an early lunch hour napping and changing and basically pretending that I was starting the day over.
Lows like that one don’t hit me very often. The next time one does, though, I won’t be counting on pistachios to see me through.