Last night, I went out to dinner with a friend of mine from graduate school. We were walking down Cross Street towards the market when we saw the hoard of college students and post-college wannabes standing along the strip of bars that make up Fed Hill’s night scene.
Even though we had plans to walk through that hoard towards the restaurant, we were both like “Uh, nooo,” and diverted to the right. We settled on an American bistro neither one of us had been to.
The place looked deserted. Apparently the Cinco de Mayo festivities had already trampled through and left. In the back dining area, one of the servers sat us between two other tables, one replete of the 5pm dinner crowd and another of a middle-aged couple.
The woman of the couple kept giving our server dirty looks, while a man behind us kept grumbling because they were out of his favorite wine.
Then the woman asked, “What about our bread?” To which the server kindly replied, “We had a busy weekend so unfortunately, we’re out. Our shipment doesn’t come in until Tuesday.” We later found out she was referring to the “free” bread usually provided to tables before their meal.
The couple, obviously outraged, said, “Let’s leave,” and then told the server, “You should tell your tables if you don’t have something that you usually provide.” They continued to give less than cordial commentary as they walked away down the street.
Oh the sense of entitlement, I read in my friend’s eye roll. We were both like what did we just walk into? And all this conflict and heated words were all over a piece of bread!?
Bread – it seems like a simple fulfillment of a basic need, but to me, it means so much more. Bread equals carbs, and carbs equal insulin, and insulin equals the imperfect estimate of trying to regulate my blood sugar because my body no longer can.
It must suck to be my body. I mean day in and day out it must come to terms with the fact that it cannot function on its own, that it cannot depend on itself to survive. It must really hate itself, too. I mean maybe it’s the reason my pancreas doesn’t work anymore? Maybe it’s always hated itself and that’s why it attacked my insulin-producing cells? Some sort of self-mutilation tactic?
But that’s just disturbing. I like to think it’s just unlucky, and if I could replace my body like I can upgrade my phone, I might consider it. But thankfully, I have my pump and my CGM, and my friends and family so that I can thrive, and if I want to, eat a piece of bread every now and then.