Devil Dogs, aptly named, are one of my old-time instruments of gluttony when I’m stressed out. I cannot resist their tempting allure. When the going gets tough, the tough eat Devil Dogs. I prefer them with a cup of tea. All my yapping about running and losing weight and being the best-in-my-age-group at 5Ks (because the rest of my age group were down at Acme Medical Equipment being fitted for their first walkers, chuckling that my name was on the list too), ALL OF IT GOES TO HELL while I stuff my face.

I remember many a rendezvous with a box of Devil Dogs way back in the late 1980s when my marriage was on its way to hell. Confusion, anger, frustration, loneliness, sadness… devil’s food cake. Devil’s food cake! And sugary cream filling! Oh, dear God! I had no restraint! The going was too tough! I broke the bread of Satan and drank of the cup of Tetley! With weeping and gnashing of teeth I groveled in the darkness in a barren land. Mmm… devil’s food cake… Dear Jesus, deliver me, these many years hence. For I do not wish to weigh 242 pounds again.

“But what are you stressing about?” the reader asks.

(Forgive them, Lord, for they know not what they ask.)

Oh, I don’t know… money, work, death, fat, people texting while driving, fat people texting while driving, (see, commas are important), missing children, war with Russia, getting a haircut, the fact that I’m out of Devil Dogs now. Big things. Small things. Serious things. Petty things. But why do they make me shove food in my face? Why do I distract myself from the unpleasant by tickling my taste buds? Why do I grind my teeth in my sleep and wake up with my face hurting (I know, it’s killing you), and then seek comfort in the arms of fried, processed, and calorie-loaded foods, which I know damned well will only lead me down the greasy highway of ill health? WHY? WHY, GOD, WHY?

I know that when I eat better – and by better I mean healthier – I feel better. Less fat, less processed food, less sugar equals more energy, less inflammation, more good nutrients floating around in my veins. I know that when I exercise – and by exercise I mean run, in my case – I feel better. More running equals more muscle mass, less fat, more energy, and more endorphins skipping around in my brain. Not to mention the psychological benefit of a sense of achievement.

Lord, help me to remember all that goodness the next time stress starts whooping my butt. Give me the strength, Lord, to resist the temptation to stuff my face in times of weakness.

And Lord, just one question: How do you feel about ANGEL’S FOOD CAKE?