The Unbearable Lightness of Being 27

You know what’s weird? Being 27. That’s weird.
You know how I know? I’m currently 27.

For 27 years I’ve been on this planet, like everyone else, trying to figure out what’s what. As a disclaimer, I’ll give you some background on myself if in case you find yourself reading this completely and feeling like I’m totally off base.

The facts: I am 27, I’ve got the beetus [see previous post], I was raised by Asian parents in the most traditional of ways and I have called off a wedding (Spoiler Alert: it was my wedding). There. You’re on the need to know now.

Being 27 is weird because it’s just so stable.

When you’re 27, you find yourself in the perfect balance of single friends and married friends. Within that perfect balance, there’s a perfect balance of single friends who still loosely abide by the rules of YOLO and the single friends who are on the verge of becoming one of your married friends. On the other side of that scale, your married friends are in a perfect balance of planning to procreate or next in line to becoming modern-life Von Trapps.

And then there’s you. You are the central pillar looking from left to right. It’s a magical balance that happens when you’re 27. It’s science. Well, the science that is my life (Remember the disclaimer?). What’s more important to note here, you’re in the eye of the incoming responsibility storm. You’ve bypassed the obstacles that is young 20-something single (ish) life and now you’re about to step on that precipice where grown up decisions need to made. Should you be scared? Maybe. But because you’re 27, you’re able to pull off a calm sort of cool on your exterior. No matter how doughy it may be now from your post-college antics.

Speaking of college, assuming you took the typical route, it’s now been five or six years since you’ve left that place. Now you are in the midst of a stable life. Amiright? No? But you can pull it off. Why? Because you’re 27. It’s like a mystical 27-year-old haze that can conveniently convince others that you seriously have your shit together at the age that you are.

You are now no longer able to use excuses about still needing to find your footing in the adult world. You’ve been working a couple of years, you most likely pay a number of bills every month and your parents have stopped taking you with on vacation. You’re now probably starting to question your work life. Is this really where you want to be? How did you even get here? I’ve been here how long?

And it’s been ten years since I’ve walked the awkward halls of high school?! Now you’re wondering if you should blow this popsicle stand or remain the timecard-swiping clown that you are in the office you’re in. We all know you’re in an office, don’t try to hide it. But deep down you know it, Dobby needs a sock! Dobby needs to be free!

Dobby, right? Remember those carefree days where your only angst was comparable to Harry Potter’s bitchy era in book five? Yeah, I remember it too. But now, you’re well beyond the legal age of drinking and suddenly that angst has the potential of turning into a borderline episode of Intervention. But only if you let it. Now if you’ve been following, you must realize that yes, you are indeed in the magical nightlife calm. Half the people around you either are working with alcoholic training wheels on or you have the winos. Congrats. Being 27, you are in the beautiful serene where you’re having a good beer and really just don’t give a shit because that office job was just way too office today. And you know what, you really know your alcohols now. This isn’t amateur hour.

Remember that responsibility storm? It’s really a responsibility firestorm. Thunder, lightning, debris. All that stormy shit. Yet, at the delicate age of 27, you remain in the tranquil center of the storm. Congrats. You have the peak quietude in the most terrifying way. Savor it. It’s the unbearable lightness of being 27.

To hell with Taylor and being 22. Being 27 is where it’s at.



Adrienne – 1, Diabetes – 0.

I am diabetic, hear me roar. I know, you know diabetes, you’ve got some third cousin’s uncle’s wife twice removed out there that has diabetes too. I got it.

I am a veteran at diabetes, My diabetes is nearly at the age where I can legally drink alcohol with (which has never stopped me before). After more than two decades, I’ve come to realize that non-diabetics don’t seem to understand the complexity of what I will live with for-ev-errr. No matter how many Wikipedia articles you read.

Short version, diabetes isn’t that easy. I don’t care what anyone says. First of all, I have Type I Diabetes. It’s a completely different game from Type II Diabeetus, which is what Brimley has. Most commercials about diabetes, unless specifically saying juvenile diabetes, are talking about Type II. Second, there’s a whole psychological factor. Hard to believe? Try taking a five-year old child who’s just trying to figure out being a sheltered Asian Navy brat and throw a lifelong disease on top of it.

Unfortunately, my parents never had “the talk” with me. In this case, the talk about how I suddenly have diabetes, I cannot live without insulin and what that means to me. The talk that was supposed to calm me down and prepare me for the life ahead. But nope, being the child of military parents, we all accepted it and moved on. I still have a legitimate blood and needle phobia.

Finally, it just really sucks having diabetes some days. I just want to live a normal life without worrying about blood sugar that’s too high or too low, complications or impending death. I read once that diabetes can shave 8-10 years off your life, happy thoughts right?

For the most part, I’ve gone this long without horrible stories or physical complications. Thank God for that. Most situations, I’ve emerged out the other end with some concern, but always something to laugh at in the end. Until this past weekend.

It happened. That awkward moment when your boyfriend has to call 911 on you. That awkward moment when you wake up realizing there’s an IV in your arm and you’re surrounded by a handful of Chicago firemen. That awkward moment listening to what happened in the last 30 minutes of your life that you apparently were not a part of. It happened to me.

And let me tell you what, it freaked me the fuck out.

In a nutshell, my blood sugar had dropped below 20. What’s a normal number? Oh, about 140. When I’m conscious and my blood sugar hits the 50/60 range, I start feeling the symptoms. I get loopy. Sleepy. Sweaty. Sometimes my vision starts to go. Sometimes I get stubborn. That’s always the worst. I realize somethings wrong with me but I suddenly have the deep desire to go against the grain.

Sidenote: I have a feeling it’s because I have a deep, dark belief that having low blood sugar is a weakness. Hell, I am a child of a Filipino Navy Chief. Also known as the best dad in the world, but regardless. Tough shit. When I’m asked, “Are you low?” I find myself saying “no” when the answer is actually “hell yes”.

Back to dabbling with the one with scythe. I came close to almost seeing the light. I honestly didn’t accept what was going on until the IV was being removed from my arm. They had were asking me to tell them what my name was. I was under the impression that they had asked me two or three times. Nope, the entire time.

I was uncooperative. There was a disconnect. Who really wants to know that about themselves? Who really wants to accept that for half an hour you’ve absolutely lost all control of your life? Freaky idea huh? Damn right it is.

Tomorrow I see the doctor. My jovial, Jewish specialist who will hopefully give me an answer I’m comfortable with. An answer that doesn’t scare the hell out of me. An answer that won’t make me feel like I’m the only diabetic in the world who can’t seem to keep her shit together.

Truth be told, I’m borderline terrified. I’ve never admitted this to anyone, but being the veteran I am, I’m terrified of being hospitalized and faced with the fact that I really haven’t been taking care of myself as well as I should be. If that were to happen, I’d automatically feel like a failure. Is it possible a person could be in denial for so long?

Diabetes sucks, man. I want to live my life. I don’t even know the true reason why I have diabetes. It wasn’t because of genetics, bad diet or bad health. My mother one day realized that there was something very wrong with the five-year old me. After being sent back here to the states from vacation in the Philippines, the little girl I was skipped into the hospital only to reveal that my blood sugar was over 2000.

TWO THOUSAND. My memory tells me I literally bounced into the hospital with a chocolate pop tart or lollipop in hand. It always confused me as to why all of the doctors were debating whether or not to call the chopper and airlift me to a better hospital. They were wondering how it was still capable that I was still standing. It wasn’t until a few years ago that I learned that when your blood sugar is that high, like bust out of the glass ceiling Willy Wonka kind of high, you should be going into cardiac arrest. At the very least.

So perhaps now you have a little insight as to why I’m freaked. Or why it’s such a mind game for me. Maybe. If not, I have other stories. Lesson learned for sure. I never plan to have 911 called on me ever again. Like someone great once told me, “way to survive that shit.” Damn straight.



Happy Monday all. Happy Opening Day. Happy April Fools. Happy “Adrienne is back to blogging” Day. For me specifically, today was Happy Bootcamp, day one (and it’s definitely not an April Fools joke). This idea came to me a few weeks ago in an email from a friend about a deal that her Crossfit gym had. Thirty dollars for thirty days. And if you know anything about Crossfit, you know it’s hella expensive and hella intense. If you know anything about me, exercise wise, you know this wouldn’t be my absolute first choice.

I’m a yoga-loving, trampoline-aerobicizing, let’s frolf in flip flops, run-for-fun kind of girl. But because I believe in trying everything at least once, and trying things that may be beneficial for my health, why not right? And if you know me even better than I thought, you know I choose to exercise for ridiculous reasons such as 1.) fitting in cute clothes, 2.) eating/drinking whatever I damn well please and 3.) not getting fat from too much insulin intake due to that ridiculous curse of Type I Diabetes.

Yeah, but no one is loving me.

So I walk into this place at promptly 6:15. Class starts at 6:20 p.m. (you think I would do this before the crack of dawn? Obviously, you don’t know me at all. I don’t even know when the crack of dawn is). People look normal, no one particularly over-fit, too buff or over juiced. Good signs. They refer to it as “The Cave”. Well cave, you smell like a gym. There are interesting “murals” on the walls that remind of bizarre versions of villains from Spiderman. Not too intimidating or motivating, just kind of perplexing. There’s an interesting contraption that reminds me of a jungle gym with interesting straps of sorts hanging from them like an interesting torture device. And if I haven’t forgotten already, I’m submitting myself to this form of modern torture.

So what did I learn from Day One? Let’s see.

There are muscle groups that my body has conveniently chosen to let go since high school. Muscle groups that apparently my hot yoga classes don’t cover. Muscle groups that I definitely wasn’t aware that I had until today. It’s like I’ve voluntarily entered myself into high school gym classes all over again. Who does that?! Oh yeah, me. But I’m not the only one. People of all shapes and sizes pay for this gym-class-esque torture. Luckily there’s this gym leader (let’s refer to him as Brock) who yells in the nicest way possible.

Brock will run around calling people cute and complimenting them in a loud way that forces them to want to continue pressing on harder (that’s what she said). It’s like he’s the Christian Grey of gym-leading. These women will do what he says. Makes me wonder how he fares at the bars. But with warm ups that consist of crab walking and bear crawling, I figure hell, if children can do this in daycare on a daily basis, I can surely do this too. Well, I can only predict I’ll have trouble raising my arms over my head tomorrow morning. I may need to go to work in pajamas and explain that I was not physically capable of changing my clothes.

Exactly, boss.

I also learned, or re-learned rather, that burpees are the devil. That’s right friends, burpees are. the. devil. Do you remember burpees? That ridiculous act of squatting down, only to shoot your legs out in plank position, to then complete a full push up, only to bounce your legs back in and jump in the air like you just don’t care (don’t forget the overhead clap!) Except you do care. You care that your muscles are burning in confusion from all the activity that it hasn’t experienced in at least eight years. And yet, you do it again. And again. And again.

I can only imagine the type of sadistic military man who came up with this sick muscle movement. Not only that, imagine his PE teacher wife who welcomed him home, asked him about his day and decided “Oh shit, why don’t I have my gym students do this too?” And the rest, is a painful history. Perhaps one day my body will be able to smoothly complete a series of burpees without being called out by Brock as an “inch worm burpee”. We shall see.

Maybe I should consider wearing this next time. Especially when gym leader Brock has decided to play dubstep.

Another thing I realized, dropping it low at the club is nothing compared to a required 90 air squats. Christina Milian knows what I’m talking about, dip it low and pick it up slow. She’s not talking about attracting the opposite sex, it’s basically a warning; check yourself before you wreck yourself. I have a lot of catching up to do before I can Sasha Fierce it with Beyonce at the next halftime show.

I mean, five or so in, I’m thinking, “Hell yeah, this is like practicing for the bars with my BFFs on girls night.” Nope. Wrong. This isn’t a dance class, this isn’t what I came here for. I came here to be healthy. Or something. At least I don’t sweat like a maniac. At least I have that going for me.

Too right, Sean Bean, too right.

That was Day One. I feel like a learned another thing or two, but the jello-y feeling has gone to my brain. All in all, I suppose I’ll continue on tomorrow. I’ll try to come up with less shallow motivators. I’ll get my money’s worth. At least this is a start. A start to real physical fitness and blogging again. We’ll see where this goes.