cabaretic

After writhing around on the bed with substantial nausea, I decided to take my blood sugar. Once I was diagnosed with the beginning stages of hypoglycemia so I have the same machine that diabetics use to monitor their blood glucose levels. As I feared, my blood sugar was very low. Fortunately, the condition is easily remedied, and I drank a very large glass of orange juice to counter the effects. Within five minutes the nausea began to subside, and by half an hour everything seemed to be fine.

The likely culprit is exercise, combined with Parnate. Both curb my appetite substantially. I'm just going to have to consume more sugars from now on, if I want to not be sick all the time.

Otherwise, today's gym drama appeals to the amateur sociologist/nosy parker/voyeur I have become over the past two months. The most beautiful girl who works out there is likely carrying on an affair with the personal trainer. I know this because I noticed the two of them making out in a car as I arrived. This is quite unusual for the personal trainer, who keeps such a self-important air about him that one would hardly believe he'd stoop so low as to engage in such behavior while on the clock. The phrase "badge heavy" applies to him almost all of the time and I find his conduct so ridiculous that I steer well clear. And now he is likely sleeping with the woman whose body turns almost every male head when it passes by them.

If the gym is an exhibit in a zoo, then I am merely a visitor who has privileges to go behind the glass. I do not belong, nor do I live there, but I enjoy observing the microcosm at play. These people are not of my species nor of my tribe.