Boring is the New Black
A story of salad, stealth sugars, and a sensible betrayal
A few weeks ago, I made the mistake of going to the doctor.
I hadn’t been for a while, so thought it would be good to check in. I mentioned feeling a bit off – nothing specific, just tired and thirsty. But who isn’t? It’s mid-heatwave, and most people have a lot going on.
I joked,
‘Wouldn’t it be ironic if, after ferrying my mother-in-law to all her hospital appointments, I ended up ill too?’
The doctor nodded.
‘That would be ironic.’
She suggested a blood test, just to rule out any of the nasties.
The Call Comes In
The results come back. I am prediabetic.
What the f*ck?
Not me. I’m one of the most boring people I know when it comes to food. I’m 90 per cent hamster – salad, seeds, leafy greens, every day. I’m very annoying to go out with to eat, bombarding the waiter with questions of provenance and ingredients. I drink mainly water. I binge Netflix, not sugar.
But illness is never fair. It doesn’t care if you eat seeds, do yoga, or politely refuse the biscuit barrel. It creeps up and whispers,
‘You’ll do.’
Meet the TOFI
At my next appointment, the nurse asks about sugar intake, sedentary lifestyle, alcohol consumption, and processed food. It’s a clean sweep of gold stars. Then, after handing me an armful of pamphlets, she asks if I know what a TOFI is.
I shake my head – was she talking about sweets?
No. TOFI is an acronym: Thin. Outside. Fat. Inside.
What?
Body Betrayal
I’m devastated. This is the complete opposite of how I’ve lived my life. I’m a clean-the-bin-but-leave-the-living-room messy kind of person. A laundered shirt, but not ironed. I feel like I’ve been deluding myself completely. I feel grubby. Like a blubber whale zipped into a dolphin body – looking like one thing, but really I’m something else.
Duplicitous. Gross.
I share my news with a friend, just to make her howl with laughter at my outrage: ‘I’m a TOFI.’
It figures. I grew up with a very pretty older sister - the kind people stare at in cafés while boys forget how to speak. I didn’t have that. So while other girls were mastering eyeliner, I was learning humour as a survival mechanism for the awkward, lumpy teenage years.
Humour became my freedom. It still is.
2 am with Google
So, what would you do?
Me too. I’m Googling like mad.
What can I eat?
What should I avoid?
Is couscous a silent killer?
Mr Google, unhelpfully, blue light shouts into the 2 am silence:
‘If it’s not well-managed, prediabetes can slide into type 2 diabetes and that can lead to heart disease, stroke, nerve damage, blindness, kidney disease, and foot issues that end in amputation.’
Gulp.
How am I meant to sleep after that?
The Sensible Trap
And the kicker? There’s no cure. Just be sensible. And maybe you’ll get lucky.
But I’m already so bloody sensible.
There’s never a good time for this kind of thing, but my youngest has just finished his exams and I had plans to mark the ‘end of school’ occasion with a bit of joyful recklessness. This comes with a sting in the tail.
Have I left it too late?
Instead of partying, I’m reading food labels like they’re legal contracts, hunting for hidden sugars, and fantasising about a fruit salad like I’m a dog dreaming of a T-bone steak.
Time to Double Down
It’s time to double down on boring. Time to weaponise the inner hamster. Perhaps time to write that comedy thriller where someone else gets to eat the pasta, drink the wine and go on a mafia murder spree – all while I’m sitting quietly, chewing on a hard-boiled egg and being a good girl.
Cow in the Queue
When the nurse tells me I’m prediabetic, I picture myself as a cow walking in a long line to the milking shed. I follow the tail in front, not thinking for myself or stepping outside the box. I just go straight into a ‘why me?’ rage.
I follow the traditional path, and I see sickness and anxiety.
But rage isn’t going to change my blood sugar levels.
Still, I can’t help feeling I’ve wasted the opportunity to be reckless. All those nights I could’ve been partying, drinking, gorging myself – and now this?
But I know it’s an empty threat to myself. I really do love salads.
Not Following the Herd
I’m not following that herd opinion. I’m finding out what this means for me. I’m curious about the changes I will make and how much better I will feel.
I’m even a little bit excited to celebrate becoming a TOTI – Thin Outside, Thin Inside.
Strike that.
I want to be a HIHO: Healthy Inside. Healthy Outside.
Doesn’t that sound cheery?
Flat Whites and Footnotes
We all get shitty news sometimes. From the little stuff – like ordering a flat white and getting a latte instead, which honestly feels like a personal betrayal – to the bigger, terrifying things that knock you sideways.
How we live through the hard bits – that’s what counts.
I know, I know, that sounds like a dreadful line on a toilet door in an STD clinic.
So go ahead: get angry, feel sorry for yourself, and wonder why life enjoys messing with you. And then, look up from your little corner of the planet and know life isn’t fair, but it can still be good.
And that’s enough to make me go full Sound of Music, spring out of bed and cue the singing nun:
‘I simply remember my favourite things, and then I don’t feel so bad.’
80% of us have it - no way. Yes way.
Me too, though mine has stayed the same for the last 5 years so my doctor said not to worry. Mind you I'm on the very low end.