Sigh. Lousy Friday.

I'm depressed as hell tonight, but that set in hours and hours ago. Instead of coming home and being depressed and isolated, I decided I'd work overtime and get rid of my tomorrow shift by working super-long today. I'm glad I did.

I didn't realize I was this down until I got home. I'm down. Quite. I put on the brave face at work, but I've basically barely spoken to anyone there all day yesterday or today. A couple people there know for a fact that I'm having a rough couple parental-type days, what with worries such as they are, but I think the word's getting around. And that's fine, as long as I don't have to be doing the talking. Just give me a wide berth and a smile and leave me in peace, y'know? That's all a girl needs some days.

Worried about me pops. The only solace I can take right now is that diabetes is a disease you can fight. It can be brought under control with constant vigilance. I've seen it done. Now I just need my dad to find an inner samurai and kick some fucking ass.

I'm glad I'm not showing any warning signs of diabetes. I should be, but I'm not. My most recent blood tests (May) say so. I guess I'm fortunate in that I seldom eat candy and junk food. I usually only eat chips at GayBoy's house, and hardly ever buy any myself anymore. I don't do desserts except with friends, except the occasional pint of quality ice cream, which usually gets me five, yes, five servings. My indulgence is bitter chocolate -- so, that's low-sugar, comparatively speaking. I eat whole grain breads more than white ones, and I seldom eat pasta or other refined flour products. I don't eat commercial cereals much, and don't drink more than a couple times a week. Pop -- diet or regular -- is seldom something I have. (I've had three cans of gingerale in my fridge since, well, April now.)

So, I'm overweight, but because I'm lazy... and because I like butter. Still, I've dropped a lot of weight in the last couple years, and I'll be taking a lot more off, too. That's as certain as the day is long at this point. Very, very driven right now.

If there's anything I'm taking out of this week with my dad, it's to wake the fuck up and finish the rest of the work I have to do in order to take charge of my health again.

You'd think the whole dead-mother thing would do that. But it didn't, it actually had the opposite effect on me. She was a healthy eater, practically a non-drinker, hadn't smoked in 25 years, and exercised regularly. She was a size 12 and looked great. And then she up and fucking keeled over from an aggressive, brutal, rare form of cancer. My thinking was, What's the fucking point of living healthy if I'm just gonna get sideswiped by a fast-killing cancer anyhow?

But this, this diabetes that my father has... there's no goddamned way I want to be taken out by this disease. You always hear about diabetes, right, but I've never really sat back and did the math of just how destructive it can be. It's shutting my father's body down. And for what? A little sugar in the system? For eating trash food for a momentary high?

I've resolved to do really easy lunches at work, but really healthy ones, and that will do a huge amount for me. I've not fallen into my old habits when I was working at the company before -- where I'd be buying baked goods or chips or lunches every day. I don't buy the baked goods at all, save for one indulgence per week, and usually a low-fat version that I can see an actual fat/calorie count on, and I've been judicious about the lunches I buy. But that stops now, and I take my plan up a notch.

Part of the reason I stayed late at work was because I'd not yet eaten my lunch: A monster salad with a tomato and roasted chicken breast and provolone piccante and a homemade salad dressing. (Pear-pomegranate vinegar, walnut oil, splash of honey, and herbes de Provence mustard, all just thrown into a little container, which I shake and toss with my salad. Easy, cheap, and uber healthy.) So, I wound up loving it and it made staying late worth the wait.

I know I'm starting to lose weight again, but I suspect I have a new kind of motivation I'd never known I could have. It breaks my fucking heart to know my father's in as much discomfort as he is. I know there's nearly nothing I can do to help it. I know I have to take steps to make sure that, at this crossroads in my life, I'm taking the path to longevity.

I mean, I'm 33, and I still feel like a kid in my 20s. The older I get, the more I realize that I don't know, that I've yet to experience, that I want to do, that I want to be. I like life, for all the hardships I('ve) face(d), I love my life. I want it to be better, to be more, and I know how to make that happen. But for what it is, now, today, I'm all right with it, you know? The notion that my mother was only 24 years older than I am now when she died, well. That sucks ass. My dad? 31 years older than me. And it sucks ass what he's facing, too.

I wanna be like Miss Chappelle, who was 82 when I knew her, and a black belt in karate, and about to do a parachute jump. I wanna be around for a long time. I want to annoy young kids and make them wonder why I'm so cool in my 70s or 80s and they're not.

Noble thoughts, I'm sure. Sigh. I'm still down, but not nearly as bad as I was an hour ago, when I was all teary-eyed and sad. I wrote a nice long letter to my pops, did some research on the web, and it made me feel a little less helpless. (Love ya, Dad.)