Running away.

A little more than nine years ago, on Jan. 1, 2002, I woke up really early in the hospital. No need to panic -- I had just had a baby the day before, so it was all good.

The reason why I woke up so early is that my endocrinologist was paying me a visit, doing his rounds so that he could get home, eat some black-eyed peas and watch some football.

I blearily-eyed did a fasting blood sugar draw. Sigh. My sugars were extremely high. He ordered an insulin shot immediately. The nurse gave it to me in my upper arm. Luckily, my blood sugars returned to normal ranges later that day, but my obstetrician told me that he considered me pre-diabetic, meaning that I would likely develop Type II diabetes in the next few years.

I've been there, done that with the various health problems that can crop up because of weight gain. I've had gestational diabetes with both pregnancies (during my pregnancy with Kate, I was insulin-dependent), high blood pressure, high cholesterol (the bad kind) and various aches and pains.

Trust me, getting out there and running every day is much better than giving yourself a shot in the stomach every morning. The hour or so I spend running is nothing compared to the hours I spent in physical therapy trying to strengthen my core so my back wouldn't ache so much, or the hours I spent in waiting rooms at the orthopedist or the imaging center.

I may end up with diabetes in the end; it runs in my family and genetics catches up with you eventually. But I'm going to put it off as long as I possibly can.

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I got on the scale this morning. Ick.

I'm up a pound from my pre-Christmas low. I keep telling myself that it's only a pound, and I can make it up if I stick to my eating plan and continue to run. I've only had one day to recoup after all the Christmas stuff, and it will be fine. I'm planning on a long run at the hike and bike trail either Wednesday or Thursday.

And if I get to New Year's Day and I'm at 131 or 132 instead of 130, that's a lot better than 161.