Etiquette Handbook: No One Ever Covered The "Giving Yourself Shots At The Table" Section

School has managed to engulf me once more, so my free time depends on how long I can put off the nagging "You should be doing something school-related" voice in my head. I wanted to blog about the scholarship luncheon two weeks ago, though, because I had this great blog post in my head that just disappeared as soon as I walked into my next Physiology class the following week.

It went like this:

The Scholarship Luncheon is hosted by Wesleyan and gives students with scholarships a chance to meet their specific donors, or "trustees". We all dress fancy, eat what is likely the same food being served in the cafeteria (just on fancier dishes) and get a chance to exercise our etiquette (which, in college, has likely gone sadly unused for quite some time.)

It is 12:06, and the scholarship luncheon starts at 12:30. I routinely check my blood sugar, fighting off the tiny shake of my hand. 62, and likely dropping. I sigh. I've just eaten a snack an hour earlier, and don't have anything left in my backpack. I walk up the steps to Candler Hall and figure I can hold myself together long enough to last until we eat. it can't be that long to wait, right? Inside, I receive my nametag and anxiously walk in my heels over to my assigned table. My stride is calm, as many years of entertaining screaming children in heels (AND a hoopskirt) will do to you. The table is covered in a pretty white tablecloth, with colorful carnations in a vase in the center. A basket of bread rolls, a slice of cheesecake, and cups of ominous looking liquid are set out in front of me. I sit down and take a small sip. Yep, sweet tea.

I stare at the food but know it would be rude to start eating before my donors even got to the table.

I wait a while, until a few more girls I know arrive at my table. Finally, my donor and his wife arrive. I greet them with a smile, standing to shake their hand and thank them for all they've done. We all sit down then, a blanket of awkward silence settling down for just a moment before we strike up a conversation. Mr. Bowen is to my left, and he asks me questions to which I politely answer as we wait for the luncheon to begin. Dean Fowler steps up to the podium, and speaks first. We have opening speeches from a few others before the Wesleyannes (I apologize if I spelled that wrong, Wesleyan people - I'm a Bio major, not a music one - ) began to sing.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. The music is lovely, but the low is hovering around me, buzzing, annoying like a mosquito. I feel my head swimming and find my eyes lingering on the cheesecake. If only I could take a bite, I could stop feeling so bad ...

But it would be rude, wouldn't it?

Would it?

I didn't even know.

The songs are finally done, and more speeches resume. Finally, servers bring the food out. I try to wait patiently as I can, when all I want to do is yell to someone, "Please! I'm low and I need food now!" 


When the food does finally get in front of me, I am so low that the fork is shaking in my hand. I don't know what else to do. When I'm low, I get the need to just eat everything in sight. Carbs don't stand a chance. I engulf my food - the bread-crusted chicken and pasta - and leave the cheesecake alone, not wanting to tempt fate. I'm the first one to finish - likely in the whole building - and I look around, embarrassed, as I see others slowly working their way through still half-filled plates.

Well, at least I feel better now.

I exhale, feeling the low wearing off.

"You must have been hungry!" One of the students at my table remarked, staring at my empty plate. "You sure ate that fast!" My cheeks turn pink. "I'm Diabetic... " I try to explain. "I'm low, I can't help it, you see, I get all shaky and --" "Wow, someone must have missed breakfast this morning!" Mr. Bowen laughed. I turned to him, also trying to explain. "I have Diabetes," I say, but he doesn't hear me well. "I was low and I needed to eat..." I sigh and give up trying to explain. I sit, hands in my lap, waiting for everyone to finish.

Meanwhile I stare at my insulin pen, which lies on the table. I'm in a dress, my arms are covered by sleeves, I have on tights, and I don't know where I can give myself insulin. Is it even polite? I take the cap off the needle and try to give myself a shot in the stomach through the dress. It's hard - it's a lot of thick fabric to work through. "Ouch," I mutter to myself, trying to inject myself, but through the dress it just plain hurts. I look around, having no idea where a restroom would be where I could excuse myself. I shake my head, cap the pen, and throw it into my backpack. Guess I would just have to wait.

After a few more speeches, more conversation, and watching everyone else get to devour their cheesecake as I worriedly fret over what the breaded chicken has done to my blood sugar, the event concludes. It is 2:30. I've eaten an hour ago. I get up, setting my napkin on the table, and gather my things. I thank the Bowen's once again for how generous they have been to me and quickly rush out of the building to check my blood sugar. It ends up at 112, almost too good to be true, when I check it at 3:00.

It's been a long ordeal. You think you have Diabetes down, until life throws you curveballs which send you reeling. Forgetting your meter and insulin at Christmas lunch, not realizing it, and come to find out the chocolate covered pretzels have a lot more carbs than you expected. Driving 2 hours to Atlanta to find out that, yes, you've forgotten your meter and insulin again. Being paranoid about every bead of sweat, every slightly more than normal paced heartbeat, or feeling of thirst. Birthday parties where Princess Belle looks ridiculous drenched in sweat but can't start scarfing glucose tabs and rice cakes in the middle of The Chicken Dance in front of onlooking parents.

And formal events. With dresses. In all my etiquette lessons, no one ever covered the "giving yourself shots at the table" section.

(In all my expertise, maybe I should be the first.)