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Every now and then, things happen that aren’t totally unexpected but that still make you do a philosophical doubletake. My recent diagnosis of Type II Diabetes was one of those moments.

I know it’s not a huge deal, really. We caught it early and it’s treatable and no serious damage has yet been done, blah, blah, blah. Millions of people live with it every day. And at least I don’t have to give myself injections. But the lifestyle changes necessary for me to deal with it are going to be a royal pain in the pancreas.

Let me just say that this whole thing is totally my fault. I’ve been a fat fuck for a good twenty years or so now and I’ve never really seriously done much to change that. I like my burgers and sandwiches and fries and greasy fried things. Eating, for me, is more than just a way to nourish my body. It’s a social event, it’s a religious ritual, it’s something to do when I’m bored. And exercise? That’s for masochists and professional athletes. I’m a wannabe writer. As long as my eyes and fingers work, what more do I need?

Of course, advanced diabetes will ruin my sight and, possibly my fingers. It will also cut short my life which seriously limits the amount of writing I can get done. Then there’s the whole potential impotence thing. Strangely, that’s one potential affect that doesn’t seem to worry Christie as much as it worries me.

You can read more about my somewhat circuitous path to diagnosis on my MySpace blog but here’s the short story. I went to the doctor about a week and a half ago for some random pains in my side. Turns out, that was mostly likely just a strained muscle but, while I was there, they did some other tests and, last Thursday afternoon, the doctor called to tell me that my A1C, which should not have been above 6 was 10.5. That was worse than he expected and certainly worse than I expected. I figured I’d be diagnosed as what they call “pre-diabetic” or be told that I was trodding dangerously close to diabetic territory. I never expected that I would actually be diabetic.

But I know that I am (and have been for some time) a large tub of sedentary goo. I’ve always known that such a development was possible. I’ve just always assumed that, at some point, the Health Fairy would appear to me, wave her wand and--POOF!!--I’d be thin and fit and hung like a camel.

So now here I am at 37, happily married, with a great job, a fantastic home, back in school, everything is going great and then this. Again, I know it’s not that big a deal and I don’t want to sound like I’m whining but it pisses me off because it’s my own fault. Because I have no willpower, I now have to make major changes in my diet and lifestyle.

Five years ago, I wouldn’t have bothered to even try to change. I would have let the disease eat me alive because I had nothing to live for but now… Now I have Christie. She, alone, is worth living for. I want to be old and cantankerous with her. I want to make sure the number of times she’s heard all my stories reaches into the millions. I want to spoil our grandchildren and have yippy little dogs that we treat like our children. (Okay, so the last one is already ongoing but I want to outlive a few more dogs.)

I am fiercely resistant to change--particularly changes involving food--but love truly does conquer all and I know that Christie will be my inspiration to get through this and get back into shape. Without her, I would be utterly lost. And I’d probably still have a mullet and dress funny.