Diabetes Ain’t Funny. But I’ll Try.

And so the doctor tells me I’m mildly diabetic.

That’s not really anything surprising when you consider that it runs in both sides of my mother’s family and he did say we caught it in the beginning stages. According to him, a little medication and with a proper diet and exercise, it should be able to be reversed.

Here’s the problem (and probably the problem that caused the problematic problem in the first place):

I love me some sugar and I love me some carbs.

The word “Sweet Tooth” is way too tame to describe how much I love sugar and so is the word “Bread Mouth” to describe my passion for carbs. To put this into perspective, you should know that if I were not married and found myself face to face with a human sized flour tortilla filled with deep fried, breaded sugar bread and crusted with a layer of caramelized cinnamon sugar and dipped in pudding, I would probably put a ring on it. I might consider covering it with Splenda to make it healthy.

You can imagine my dilemma, then, when told I need to cut out sweets and carbohydrates, opting for proteins and vegetables which I must obtain by sprinting to and only eating from bowls placed under my face as I go downward during pushups.

To say the least, this has got my dander all up. I don’t like my plans to be changed and I had planned on living a life of dietary frivolity that consisted of hamburgers between Twinkie buns. I get ornery and mad and angry and sometimes, redundant. As a matter of fact, as I sit here at lunch, eating a delicious hamburger steak, minus the Twinkies, but with sides of green beans and corn and a glass of water to drink, I wonder how much of this I’m going to be able to take. I mean, these green beans are okay, but they’re a bit salty and we wouldn’t want my blood pressure to soar, now would we? I might have to start going raw with my vegetables if they can’t be cooked bland for me because God knows we don’t want to eat an improper dang diet!

The corn’s good, though. My wife just said to watch the corn. It’s starchy – carboloaded and sweet. We got into a heated conversation about it just moments ago because I thought she was going to nag me. She’s right and only wants to help, but I didn’t want to hear it. The plate had only recently come and I was still getting over the fact that I had before me a round, glass food surface that did not have fries, cheese sticks, or something covered in syrup atop it.

The conversation wasn’t really heated, actually. It went something like this, via text:

ME: Be proud of me. First new diet meal is hamburger stork, green beans, corn, and water.

ME: Hamburger STEAK. Dang autocorrect.

HER: Ha ha. I figured that out. It’s a good start, but be careful about the corn. Corn can be sweet and it’s very starchy.

ME: I know, but it’s all they had on the sides menu that I like. I know what I’m doing. I’m just oil about it.


HER: Like I said, it’s a good start. I’ll look up some healthy recipes that we’ll both like and show you how to get through the hard times like I did.

ME: I don’t need a couch, I need a cheerleader.

ME: “COACH”, dang it! Why do my sausage fingers do that?

ME: Sausage. I like sausage. Can I have that?

HER: You can have sausage.

ME: Good.

HER: But watch the corn.


I love my wife for being supportive and willing to help me and I love her for putting up with all she is about to go through during my transition from being a sloppy bag of barely digested Cadbury Crème Eggs to a lean, mean, muscle machine.

And exercising is not a problem. I like to get out and move when the weather’s nice. And I have a great treadmill that I can remove the unfolded laundry off of when it’s bad outdoors. There’s also the bonus that within the acceptable confines of my diet plan, I can have as much as I want to eat. According to the doc, I’m only 20 to 25 lbs away from my target weight, so it’s not like I’m morbidly obese. That means I likely will not be able to eat so much of the “good” stuff that I counteract the positive effects of this new system. So it’s not a matter of portion size for me. It’s a matter of wanting to chew on saltwater taffy and chase it with Kool Aid. For breakfast.

All in all, I suppose I don’t have a choice. I love Jesus and intend on going to heaven, regardless of how many Facebook memes say otherwise since I choose not to type “amen.” And if I didn’t have family, including a wife and children, I might choose to simply let it be what it is and enjoy every bite of anything I want, even if it meant I could be bursting through the Pearly Gates at any second. But I do have my family and they care about me. I want to see my kids grow into awesome adults who leave the house at an appropriate age. I want to be around long enough to tell my grandchildren to pull my finger.

And I want to have many more years with my wife, even if I’m the one spooning corn into her mouth because she always spits it out at the orderlies and punches them in the junk. Yes, corn.

So thank you, my dear wife. Thank you, doctor, who had to make that call with the results of my blood test and then comfort my tears and cries of, “CHOOOOCOLAAATE!”

And thank you cows. Because if hamburger steak is ever off the menu, just go ahead and plan my funeral.