Babies in Bowels.

Vacation is often a time of gluttony.

But when your lifestyle is often just as gluttonous, you can't really blame your excessive eating simply on the expression, "It's ok, I'm on vacation."

Needless to say, I'm on vacation, and I think I might have eaten enough food in the past three days to feed a moderately sized village in India for two, maybe even three, weeks, depending on the average age of people residing in the village.

And I'm feeling guilty.

I've been working on this whole self-control idea for awhile now, well, since Lent started. And I thought it was going well. I mean, the resistance has been nothing less than an arm and a lanky leg for me, considering the pending addiction I had been teetering on the edge of. I was becoming just a little too fond of all things sugary.

So I gave it up.

Not a day goes by where I don't croon for it, swoon for it, beat someone with a jagged spoon for it. But I think I'm doing well. I haven't had a soda or a dessert, a candy or a cone, aside from sweet celebration Sunday, in three weeks now.

I'd give myself a solid pat on the back, except I've substituted.

I'm on vacation and I feel like I have a baby in my bowel. I've over-eaten at every meal in the past three days. Over-eaten so much that I feel violently ill. So violently ill that I'd actually punch someone in the gut so that they might return the favor and allow me the sweet savory reprieve of having to digest and unwillingly harness the calories of the said over-eatery. I'd punch them. They'd punch me. And I'd spill my guts, my foody guts, splashing all over the cracked concrete, and then I'd wipe the residue from my lips, pop a Tic Tac and sigh with inexcusable relief.

Except I couldn't muster the courage to punch anyone. And I couldn't muster the courage to do the finger throat thing. And I couldn't muster the courage to admit my folly. So I sat in my chair after every pound of nachos, every pound of burrito, every pound of pizza, every pound of dirty burger, and wallow in my own regret.

Why do we do it? Why do I do it? Forgive me for lumping you into my gluttonous regime. After every sickening meal, I ask myself the same question.

And despite my inability to come up with an answer that will suffice in time for the next meal, I find myself spiraling down the rabbit hole of just one more bite. Then the next meal comes and I haven't found an answer so the question, poof, disappears, and I pummel my intestines with more solid foods than they could ever handle.

Self-control. Tis the fruit of the spirit I wish I had in my basket. I fear I already ate it and the nutrients didn't stick. Didn't resonate. Didn't pummel my intestines enough to get my attention.

Oh well, I guess I'll just sit back with another infant sized burrito and try and wrap my mind around what it might take to actually refrain from eating enough food to sustain a small village.

Food. It baffles me.