I was testing my blood when the waitress came for our drink order. I was bolusing when she came for our dinner order. And I felt like I had to hide my meter and my pump. I felt like if she knew I was diabetic, she would judge me when she set the huge bowl of gnocchi in front of me. Or when she saw me accept the slice of bread Pete passed from the bread basket. It didn't matter that my extended bolus kept my blood sugar from going no higher than 157 after eating and put my 2-hour post-meal fingerstick at 91. Or that a slightly higher overnight temp basal and a 2am correction of a 145 blood sugar gave me a fasting of 125 this morning. I felt like she would judge me. She would be under the impression that a Type 1 diabetic can't eat a pasta meal. She would become the dreaded diabetes police.
I'm proud that I can indulge once in a while and still keep my numbers fairly in line. But I'm disappointed that my guilty conscience sees people judging me, whether they actually are or not.