Writing Exercise 01

This was an exercise prompted by a writing group I recently joined. The task was to take a household object and speak from its perspective.

I am an odd sort of egg shape, as if the top of an egg could be gently flattened without breaking. Bigger and clumsier than your old meter, happily abandoned when opportunity came knocking, tossed aside in favor of me and my no-coding simplicity. Soft blue, mostly, with the requisite grey digital screen. Simple and elegant buttons - only two - for displaying the numbers that alternately mock and congratulate. A delicate swoop of a logo, aspiring to be airy and friendly to take the edge of the sometimes bad news I provide.

I'm sitting here on your desk, wondering if today is one of the days that you are feeling diabetic, or if I'll be ignored. I can't believe the run of luck I've had of late - daily use - four, five, six times a day. Then there was that insane day where you pretended I was a continuous blood glucose monitor and picked me up 20 times, obsessing over which direction your blood sugar was taking and why. Quite frankly, that little exercise wreaked havoc with my nap schedule. I hope the data was worth it.

There you are, bleary eyed first thing in the morning. Tap the keyboard to wake up the PC, crack open a diet coke, reach for me. Don't take this personally, but you look high. I'm guessing over 200. You know, you really should put me by the bed sometime and check those overnight basals. Sorry to nag but you know it's true.

You slide the strip in (that tickles!) and I wake up with a beep. You reach for the lancet device as I blink in ready mode. Change the damn lancet, fool, and it won't take two or three attempts. You lift me up and place the strip against the tiny red drop. The strip takes its delicate sip of blood, and I start my countdown. Fifteen... fourteen... thirteen. You gently bite your lip, looking hopeful. Nine... eight... seven... six. Snap the top back on the bottle of strips and await the verdict. Three... two... one.

278.

Damn, you look crushed. Wait! No! Don't throw me! It's not my fault!

Really, it's not your fault either. I know you went to bed with a blood sugar of 117. What the heck happened?

I'll see you in two hours, we'll try again.