I've gotten sugar-crashy in a lot of different places, but through usage of Gatorade and Zone Bars I've always managed to avoid entirely misplacing my blood sugar while exercising. A good thing, since I seem to exercise a lot these days, and I suspected I'd have a spectacular time of it if I managed to have such a beastie in one of my Places Of Workout.

Well, see, I thought I was fine!

Okay, perhaps I didn't quite think I was fine, but I thought I had things under control. (#2 on the list of danger signals.)

Let's retrace: Thursday night, go bowling with friends old and new. It had been the first time I'd bowled since starting workouts, and it was gratifying. I'd picked up a nine-pound ball, what I'd been accustomed to bowling with, and threw it one time before being banished to the rack of bowling balls to find something heavier.

See, I'd thrown the ball halfway down the lane before it hit wood.

I resisted the urge to tilt my chin to the sky and howl, though it was extraordinarily tempting.

I went to the rack, finally found a heavier ball with small, close finger holes (those of you playing the home game: I have tiny hands and feet to match my short stature) and giggled like a madwoman when I realized I was about to start bowling with a thirteen-pound ball.

I threw the ball, had much greater success, and sat down.

Halfway through the night I began to recognize potential sugar crash symptoms, so I got a couple of snacks (about 400 calories total, as I hadn't eaten that much that day) and ate them. I felt better.

I went home.

Friday morning I woke up at Tenzing's five a.m. insistence, slamstumbled my way into the bathroom to feed the little monsters, and realized that I'd encountered something new: I'd awakened to a full-blown sugar crash. (Mumbled expletives cheerfully deleted. I'm pretending that this is a family site this week.) I slamstumbled through a few rooms (and off of a few walls) and found food in the kitchen.

(Impressive, given that I didn't turn any lights on.)

I ate the food. Didn't drop any.

(Impressive, given that I didn't turn any lights on.)

Got back in bed, promised myself that I'd go back to sleep and I'd wake up and be … you guessed it … fine!

…which, actually, was the case. I was tired, as I always am after a blood-sugar episode. Tired enough that I decided that perhaps I shouldn't swim that day, and should just do my 45-minute elliptical workout. See? I was being reasonable!

Late in the afternoon, I decided it was time to tough through the tireds and get my (not so) chubby (as it was) butt to the gym. I wish I could remember exactly how many minutes I managed before the dizzy spell hit. It was either 20 or 23 minutes in when I got that sinking, blurring feeling at the edge of my vision that usually indicates an incoming dizzy spell.

I got off the machine, grabbed my little backpack purse, and stumbled up to the front desk. Luckily, Lynn, the gym owner, was there. I said "I think I'm having a sugar crash" and he walked me over to the drink machine, then pointed me to the drink that had the most sugar in it.

I eventually figured out which bill in my purse was a one (as opposed to a five) and fed it into the machine. I sat down and drank most of the soda in one sitting.

When I was more sure of my legs, I picked up my equipment and sat down outside, because for some reason, the cool October sunlight seemed to be the right thing for me at that moment. I sent a couple of text messages to people to let them know what had happened, and had the disturbing experience of explaining to a complete stranger that no, I was fine, I'd managed to take in about a hundred and fifty calories, and that no, he didn't need to call 911 even though I looked really, really pale.

All I remember of him now is a cane he used for his left leg, Where's Waldo-style glasses, and the quizzical tilt of his head as he said quietly, "God bless you, little lady. I hope you feel better soon."

I got home, ate a snack, and promptly slept for two hours.

I'm now officially in the market for a glucose monitor.

I of course had to have a sugar crash in front of Rick, a good friend and coworker of my spouse's; and Brian-the-lifeguard, who sees me nearly every day at the pool. Grr. So much for preserving dignity and keeping my issues to myself…

To the three friends who helped talk me through this as it was happening, thank you. You all read this site, and you know who you are.

(images link to larger versions on flickr -- or see the full photoset)

Chris Frost getting his wondergeek kiss.

Geof can do both floor bowling and sumo bowling.

This is a typical group picture.

I cannot explain Heather's nor Jessica's expressions in this picture.

Nor Sean's in this one.

Bowling inspires munchies.

More as I get them developed.

I've found lately that my posts are taking on more of the style of a letter to a friend; I'm starting to have trouble distinguishing between the two, and I don't quite know what to make of the change.

Just hung up the phone—tried to call Brad just now. I'm not terribly surprised he's not home; there's hockey on tonight and I really didn't expect him to be there. Strangely enough—I spent the evening with a large (for me) number of people, but at the end of the evening I found myself wanting most to curl up with the phone while talking to an old friend. Since my east coast friends are well off into dreamland, I thought I'd reach out, out west, and see what was going on there.

Too much caffeine. After bowling tonight, I probably shouldn't have downed that coffee from Barnes and Noble.

Sigh. Have to massage my right hand to be able to type much. A badly thrown ball during one of tonight's bowlfest games appears to have more far-reaching effects than I originally expected. The middle finger on my right hand throbs when I move it, and I can't flex it completely. A quick look tells me it's swelling. Argh—can I do anything without sustaining dumb injury like this?

I may be curtailing some typing for the next day or so while it calms down.

After tonight's bowlfest I drove home, watching the reflective lane markers speed by faster than usual. Something about tonight made me want to get out into the night, roll my window down, and just drive. I hesitated before making the turn off of the main road to take me toward the house—this urge, this wanderlust, to go out and find out where the road ends. To see where it takes me in the meantime, to sing along with the radio in the meantime.

The freedom of open, silent road and a car you've had so long she feels like an old friend. The seat, familiar and—shall we say—conforming? The hush of a lack of expectation—Jeff expected me home at some point, but at no particular time.

This weekend is the local arts festival. I've suggested that we do something a little different this time around—bring blankets and our Hot Death Uno deck and maybe a book or two and soak up some sunshine. The weather's supposed to be beautiful this weekend, and we could all probably use a bit of outdoor time.

I like that idea. I wish Jeff could go with us, but I know that he probably needs to study for his last final, and that my clearing out of the house for a few hours would probably help him immensely.

But, for now, I think I shall sign off and battle a nemesis for a few more minutes. I've been working on a piece I've tentatively titled "Bastille Day," but it refuses to coalesce into something worth printing. Maybe tonight will be the night it comes together. We'll see.