But sometimes, it's seeing a purple pancreas clipped to the pocket of a Target employee as you pass by. You don't want to be "that crazy lady", so you bite your tongue and keep walking. But then, minutes later, that pump and its owner are mere steps away again, and you can't help yourself. It's like word vomit. It has to come out.
"Is that an insulin pump?", you offer cheerfully. (You know very well that it is - right down to the brand name - but you want to ease into this.)
"Yep!", she responds cautiously.
You motion to the silver pump tucked into your own pocket, as if performing some sort of secret handshake maneuver known only by those who have joined The Club No One Wants To Join. "Me too! I have a Ping." Your voice is tinged with a tad too much enthusiasm.
"Yeah. Well, rock on." You realize that you had no road map for conversation past this point, and with the one word replies you've accumulated, you retreat.
Cut to the checkout line, as the cashier rings up the last of your items: she's back. In your line. Standing right next to you.
You debate. You know you should just shut up, pay for your multi-pack of dry erase markers, and walk out the door. But YOU JUST CAN'T.
"So how do you do this? I mean, every time I'm here, I drop low from walking around so much. It's like you guys have inhalable insulin in here."
She politely laughs, albeit uncomfortably. "Oh? Um, I don't know. It, uh... it doesn't really happen to me that much."
You smile, say "Oh, okay", and get the heck out of there.
(And, sometimes, diabetes-related spidey sense happens while you're in a bathroom stall at the mall and can overhear the conversation at the sinks:
Friend 1: "Geez, you always take forever!"
Friend 2: "It's the insulin pump! I have to hold it in one hand and then try to do everything else with the other."
But fortunately for you, the Target experience happened first. You've learned your lesson, and zip it.)