I mentioned here before how our family doctor yelled at us because of Cliff's weight gain. It wasn't pretty. One thing he mentioned was that Cliff's sugars have been elevated twice in the last several months. "If you don't lose that twenty-five pounds," he told Cliff, "You're going to end up diabetic. Do you want to have to start giving yourself shots?"
Cliff has actually lost four pounds since then. But of course, a Thanksgiving meal lies ahead on Saturday, for us.
Yesterday his older brother called and invited us to their house for dinner today.
"Cliff," I said, "you simply can't have two Thanksgiving dinners. One is bad enough."
So he told Phil we'd come over after dinner and see everybody.
Oh yeah, like that's gonna work. Food will still be on the table and counters. You think Mr. Will Power is going to pass it all by?
While Cliff's been on vacation these past few days, we've been experimenting with what will probably be our eating schedule when he retires. Our big meal will be at noon (that's always been normal for us) and supper will be very light, maybe a bowl of cereal or a salad. It's been working well.
On the days he's working, we can't put this plan in operation; if I send him too light a lunch, he'll get hungry and hit the machines. He has no will power when he's at work. He seems to have a sign on his forehead that reads "feed me", because women are always bringing treats to him, and he says it's rude to refuse them.
"Cliff, you think it's rude to tell people your doctor told you to lose weight because you could end up diabetic?"
"Well, there's always the fact that their cookies might taste good."
Obviously his co-workers don't care whether he lives or dies, as long as he'll eat their stuff. I'm beginning to think he doesn't care, either.
Of course, I'm not losing weight either. I'm not even trying to. The doctor didn't yell at me now, did he?
Yes, there is diabetes in my family; my mother died with only one leg intact: Do you want to make something of it?