Itâ€™s true: Too much of anything is no good

When my siblings and I were children our father insisted we avoid doing or acquiring too much of any one thing, even if the item or act in question was nominally beneficial.

He’d parrot his mantra so often I could hear it in my sleep. Once it occurred to me to suggest that saying, “Too much of anything is no good,” too often was, as defined by the very words he was speaking, also no good. But then I remembered to whom the house belonged.

Oh, his oft-repeated blanket statement was true on some occasions, like the time I ate a whole box of delicious dried apricots in one sitting; that was indeed a disagreeable thing. Too many Jolly Rancher candies were a bad idea, too; I got my first-ever cavities after I started investing a significant portion of my allowance in Watermelon Sticks. But how could too much Chinese food be a bad thing? It was full of vegetables, which were allegedly good for you.

Like any normal child then ”“ and now ”“ I’d occasionally challenge my dad’s supposed wisdom, though unlike many of today’s youngsters I’d do so with extreme caution, given that a firm swat on the hindquarters for perceived disrespect was always a possibility.

“How can you have too many popsicles on a hot day?” I’d ask.

He’d come back with some sort of generic parental explanation that went in one ear and right out the other, and to which I’d innocently retort, “How can you have too much kindness?” And if he bothered responding to that one I’d play my trump card.

“How could I ever have too much baseball?” I’d query, which would end the discussion then and there because we both knew I loved America’s national pastime so much I could never get too much ”“ or even enough ”“ of it.

Now fast-forward four-plus decades. Last Tuesday, Major League Baseball held its annual All-Star game, but I didn’t learn the result until the following morning, since I haven’t watched the sport’s nominal Midsummer Classic in at least 25 years. The reason: Utter indifference. (Note: Apparently I’m not the only person whose interest in watching pharmaceutically-enhanced, entitled millionaires whack a ball around is fading; the game’s TV ratings were its worst ever.)

It’s probably a little late for an apology, seeing as Dad died 37 years ago, but it’s time to publicly state the obvious: My father was right. Too much of anything is no good, and it applies to many things besides dried apricots, Watermelon Sticks and Major League Baseball. Thanks to all-you-can-eat buffets I’ve discovered there is indeed such a thing as too much Chinese food, particularly when it is served in unlimited portions from industrial-sized troughs. On occasion, I’ve used trips to such establishments to reward sustained good behavior by my gluttonous yet maddeningly slender offspring, but even as they greedily wolf down their favorite Asian delicacies, which in my youngest son’s case are pizza and french fries, I rarely go back for seconds myself, and by the time we leave the place I have absolutely no desire to return there again for a very long time.

And as I’ve recently discovered, my dad’s “overindulging in a good thing” rule can also apply to reading. Not long ago I picked up a novel titled “Fade Away.” “Great Fun,” proclaimed the Houston Chronicle on the front cover. “Fast action, snappy dialogue ”¦ an enjoyable read,” promised the Toronto Star. Publishers Weekly, the Atlanta Journal and Constitution, and the Newark Tribune had similar praise for author Harlan Coben, but more importantly there were no quotations from the New York Post, the Boston Herald, People Magazine or any other bottom-feeding publications aimed at the lowest common denominator. Literary snob that I am, a rave review on a book’s cover from one of those rags permanently disqualifies the offending tome from my reading list.

Anyway, “Fade Away” was great fun, as were “Back Spin” and “Deal Breaker,” two other novels by the same author, which I subsequently raced through. But at the conclusion of “Tell No One,” which I borrowed from my local library and finished in less than a day, I found myself wondering why I had just wasted three or four hours of my time. Then I thought of my dad and his “Too much of anything” speech. Reading four novels by a terrific writer in a two-week period is, well, too much of a good thing.

So that’s it. I’m off Harlan Coben for awhile. I’m done with big league baseball until at least next year. And my dried apricot limit is one per day.

But I’m not kidding myself; I’m a long way from attaining perfect self-control. Just yesterday I caught myself thinking about eating vegetable lo mein again ”¦ and then going back for another helping.

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