If life is in fact a series of actions and consequences (and good Lord, I hope it isn't), then the fact that I eventually developed type 2 diabetes (known affectionately around the Rummel-Hudson compound as "the Beedies") is about as mysterious as why it gradually gets lighter outside at roughly the same time each morning. ("Did someone install stadium lights out there? Lets investigate. Oh, look, the sun...")

In college, I lived a life of excess. Despite the fact that I also drank way more than I should have, the main culprit was food. Glorious, wonderful food. I live in Texas, so take those food items and deep fry them. (To this day, the idea of chicken fried steak repulses my northern friends, and yet just now, when I typed those three lovely words, I got a little slobbery.) I drank too much soda, I ate too much crap, and if something green ever went past my lips, it was probably an M&M.

On top of the culinary delights that I was ingesting at alarming, Homer Simpsonesque rates, I was also shockingly sedentary. Really, just about the only thing I had going for me was that I didn't smoke, and even then, a little tar in the lungs might have provided a refreshing balance if it meant that I might take a brief pause from the rest of my destructive behaviors.

Really, it's a wonder that I am still alive at all.

Things have changed, of course. Even though I have gained back some of the weight I lost when I got within five pounds of my target weight last summer (oh, how I miss that skinny guy...), I am still just a shadow of the gigantic booger of a person that I was in college. I married someone who cared enough about avoiding widowhood to kick me in the ass and make some changes. I started eating better and even began exercising, albeit in a haphazard manner. The damage was largely done, of course, and when I was diagnosed last year, my first response was, "Well yeah, that's about right." But with some basic changes in my lifestyle, I've been able to step away from the abyss, even though I still peek over the edge now and then, just to see if it's still as much fun as I remember.

When I picked up a copy of New York Magazine recently and read a fun article by Gary Taubes called The Scientist and the Stairmaster: Why most of us believe that exercise makes us thinner-and why we're wrong, I must confess, my first reaction was not one of incredulity, despite my natural skepticism for this sort of thing.

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to walk (not run) to the gym where I regularly trudge dutifully on the treadmill and knock the thing over. No, I might even hop in my car to go do it, since it's a hundred yards or so from my apartment. I'd throw off the shackles of mindless exercise and shuffle slowly and victoriously back to my couch. I'd still be eating lettuce and paper when I got there, but at least one of the two diabetic bugbears -- Diet & Exercise -- would be defeated.

It doesn't take more than the most casual Google search to find experts and scientists ready to pick apart Taubes's science; his advocacy of the Atkins Diet (in a New York Times Magazine article that asked the question "What If Fat Doesn't Make You Fat?") raised howls of protest as well. In taking on both a low-fat diet and an exercise regimen aimed at losing weight, Gary Taubes actually sounds a little bit like the devil. A very, very sweet-talking devil.

In the end, the treadmill remains unvandalized and the call of the abyss unheeded. I had my fun as a young man. The bill is still due.