I spent a bit of time in self-reflection this past weekend. And by a bit, I mean a precious little--just about the time it takes to find my way home in Saturday afternoon traffic from the grocery store.
"Why is it," I wondered, "that I'm only able to use my compulsive powers for evil--never for good?"
Later, as I was squeezing 24-count cartons of Diet Coke under the bed and behind the couch, I realized that I had never once brought home more fresh vegetables than I had room for. Once opened, I can't walk away from a bag of candy, but I've never walked around the block and then felt compelled to walk two or three more miles. I sometimes sleep so late on Saturday that I awake all worn out and have to take a nap before I can face getting dressed, but I've never worked so hard during the day that my drowsy thoughts on the pillow are, "Wow. Can't wait to do that again."
And those are the more innocuous examples. My immoderation with regard to the sin-tax vices are greater than a normal person would judge as--well, normal.
It's true what they say--anything in excess can be a bad thing. But when the thing in which you are intemperate isn't that great for you in the first place, it becomes a problem. And let's face it, if the things that were good for you felt or tasted as wonderful as the things that would kill you, most of us would live forever.