God don't make no junk, but people make junk food

I feel the swirling currents of time around me.

Echoes of the past rub against cloudy wisps of hints from the future.

Today the hints are negative.

I'm surrounded by unhealthy, sad people.

The mood of the masses around me is dejected and somewhat hopeless.

I see a man relent and buy his demanding children donuts instead of retaining his authority. Today, their whining was winning.

I'm at work, surveying a neighborhood ahead of an imminent local election. I feel the call of nature, so I jaunt over to a gas station for quick bathroom break.

A temptation beam of gluttony whispers into my hypothalamus..."you are getting hungry...buy some chips."

My still-developing cerebral cortex notes the predictable imposition of gluttony. My past, full of prostrations to indulgence and consumption, continues to intrude into my present and my future. My future cries.

My strength grows with age, but my grand goals make gluttony's attacks seem trivial.

How irrelevant a single snack when there are lives and countries to be saved!

Besides, I've been working hard. I deserve a tasty treat!

I grab a bag of potato chips. A big bag.

Then I get in line for the cash register. The woman in front of me has a belly that can't be contained by her shirt, and the very shape of her body looks uncomfortable. It's not the firm roundness of a pregnancy. Rather, it's the untidy gelatinous wound of gluttony.

Perhaps the lowercase 'g' god of visual sight enjoys associating spiritual decay with physical symptoms. Or perhaps the correlation is direct...I know I look better when I'm reading and eating virtue. Of course, beauty sleep makes sloth look good.

Whatever the case may be, I'm turned temperate. I pivot around and bring the chips back to their shelf.

"Goodbye, Ruffles," I murmur. "You weren't a good buy, according to the tea leaves."

I grab a generic bottle of water instead and return to the line.

In the two minutes since my small win, the composition of the line has changed.

I now find myself waiting behind a chiseled young man with twenty-inch biceps, and a young woman with a waist the size of a cereal bowl. Both wear form-fitting gym clothes and carry themselves with dignified confidence.

My future laughs and smiles.

Such a small decision, but what a hinge moment. Now the whispering hints are positive.

I pump some gas and return to work. The cars around me as I drive are clean and waxed.

The street I'm surveying, in a welcome change, is free from litter. The lawns are mowed and trimmed.

As I knock on doors and discuss the upcoming election with the residents, I notice a strange statistical anomaly: before my bathroom break, I was mostly talking to elderly, overweight men. Now I suddenly find myself speaking to what seems to be a neighborhood of young, fit women.

I don't complain about such twists of fate, even if I appreciate the wisdom of old guys.

My spirit smiles.

When I'm near to quitting, I knock on a door that's answered by an incredible beauty with a smile that could melt Antarctica.

I do my spiel, and she responds politely. When I'm finished, she tells me I look famished, and asks if I want to come inside for a water or a snack.

I'm already racking my brain for a way to ask her to dinner, so I accept the opportunity to prolong the encounter.

When I'm inside her house, I follow her into the kitchen, and I see bags of Ruffles and Andy Capp's perched on the counter.

"How did you know about the Ruffles?" I blurt out.

"They're a common brand, dear," she says with a smirk. "Actually," she says as she opens the refrigerator. "I was going to offer you some homemade California rolls."

I marvel at her and smile.

I deserve the beauty of my highest self, and so do you.