I got the bad news in my doctor’s exam room. I sat on a chair by the examining table. He perched on a rolling stool looking down at my bloodwork. He was younger than I was with dark hair and the pale skin of someone who worked long hours and didn’t get out much in the Phoenix sun. “I know why you’ve been feeling so tired lately,” he said. “You’re prediabetic.” I tried to register the words. My first reaction was shock. The next was denial. How could I be prediabetic? My dad was diabetic, but that was because he never exercised. He had always had at least two jobs and barely had time to work, eat, sleep and raise four kids. Exercise was not something that I ever saw either of my parents do. I, on the other hand, had been exercising my entire life. “I’m not sure I understand.” “Your blood sugar level is higher than normal. It isn’t enough to be diabetic, but without changes to your diet and lifestyle, you’ll become diabetic. You need to lose weight and exercise more.” “I already exercise,” I protested. “I ride my mountain bike two or three times a week. I’ve been doing it for more than twenty years. I swim laps and walk at least twenty minutes every day.” He glanced again at my chart. “Your body mass index is twenty-four. Do you know what that means?” “I know the term, but I don’t know what makes a good…
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