"The kind of man whom everybody speaks well of and nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see and nobody remembers," said a character in Jane Austen's "Sense and Sensibility."

For years, this was how I saw myself. I viewed myself as a jolly fat boy, a clown, someone to delight others. I hoped this would make me happy, but it rarely did. Still, I tried. I could laugh about the fact I was given a workout tape to watch over summer break, in kindergarten. I could smile over the hours, the entire afternoons, spent living life in a living room.

Of course I smiled. I always smile when I act.

But I'm not smiling when I read about Pennsylvania's Lincoln University and its requiring 25 seniors to enroll in a weight-loss course. And I'm really not smiling when I see that these students' diplomas may depend on their losing weight.

My own coming to terms with my weight took many years and will probably never be completely resolved. But along the way, I made changes, set rules and learned a few things about life.

One of the best things I learned was not to let others make decisions for me, and that's how several students at Lincoln University feel this decision boils down to.

"I didn't come to Lincoln to be told that my weight is not in an acceptable range. I came here to get an education. If Lincoln truly is concerned about everyone being healthy, then everyone should have to take this gym class, not just people who happen to be bigger," wrote senior Tiana Lawson in the campus paper, the Lincolnian.

It's shameful when a college has to be run on the same level as an elementary school. Back then, we were all required to participate in gym, no matter how fat we were or how much we stunk at volleyball.

However, for all the annoyance of elementary school gym, it did provide me some sort of salvation. In my highly memorable fourth-grade year, the same year I first wanted to write, I became a devout follower of Zinser Elementary's mile-marker program. The program, the masterpiece of Zinser's gym teacher, Mrs. McClennan, consisted of students running or walking laps across our field. The field seemed fairly large when I was a child, but now could have been no larger than KU Field. Four laps equaled a mile, and each lap was measured on a 20-slot punch card. What really caught my attention was the announcement that students who completed 100 punch cards would receive a medal at our awards assembly in May. Even then I was practicing Oscar acceptance speeches, so the idea of snagging a medal was fantastic.

Nowhere in the program was student participation required. Oh sure, maybe everyone did a lap or two to kickoff the program, but after that, it certainly wasn't enforced. I was free to spend my recesses as I wanted, but this time, I got to do it outdoors. Hell, I even walked through waist-high snow to further my goal.

I completed 100 cards. Many friends and classmates ran the last lap with me.

I completed 120 cards by myself. Of course I got the medal. I was the only one who cared about the program. But I'd be wrong if I claimed the ends justified the means. While participating in a school fitness program was the right choice for me, I was also 9-years-old. For a college to make a student do the work of a child is counter-productive to inspiring a healthy lifestyle.