The Roxy Café on West Ave

…and why I’m not eating there again.

Most people who know me know that I’m diabetic. I test my blood before every meal and occasionally have to give myself an insulin injection before I eat. This is a pain (literally) but after twenty-something years I’m used to it.

I’m also used to the fact that these activities bother some people. I can’t do anything about this, except perhaps to hide in the bathroom whenever I have to pierce my flesh with something sharp. I used to go hide, in fact, before two things occurred to me:

One: A public men’s room is hardly the most sanitary place to bleed.

Two: If someone has a problem with my diabetes then it’s their problem, and I shouldn’t have to hide my disease from public view just because it might offend someone's delicate sensibilities.

Now, about the Roxy…

Yesterday morning I had to go out to the Diabetes Center off West Ave. for a bit, and being hungry I stopped into the Roxy Café for a bite. I went through my usual routine of blood testing and medications, ordered a burger and sat there quietly with a book. Again, my normal eating-out routine.

Then I was startled by a waitress (the manager, I suppose) who came over and asked me, very politely, if I wouldn’t mind, in the future, going into the Men’s Room to test my blood, or perhaps doing it in my car before I came in? Seems a couple of customers had complained…

I don’t know who these customers were (probably the couple who had left just before, having eaten most of their meals but leaving more food on each of their plates than I had ordered) but I noted that they hadn’t seen fit to say anything to me, electing rather to seek the management to complain. If they had said anything to me, I might have tried to accommodate them. I would at least have had the chance to politely explain myself, and ask for a bit of tolerance.

I should note than a younger me might have reacted quite differently, that there would at least have been a raised voice and possibly a storming out. Maybe that’s what I should have done anyway, but I didn’t. When I was asked to hide in the Men’s Room, I just said, as politely as I could, “I’ll do you one better…I won’t eat here again.”

Being diabetic is no damn fun. Testing my blood is painful and inconvenient, but necessary. Same goes for insulin injections. These are things I have to do if I want to keep my remaining toes (I’m down to five now). I am not going to hide myself away from public view when I have to do these things. If my trying to keep from dying bothers you, bite me.

Unless, of course, you’re afraid of catching my diabetes…in which case, bite me.

The Blues Viking

The opinions here expressed are mine and if you don’t like them you can get your own damn blog.