Long ago when I was young and reasonably athletic I took great pains to stay that way. Whenever I did something potentially harmful to my health I’d make up for it by physically demanding even more from myself than I usually did. For example, were I to have a piece of pie topped with a dollop or three of ice cream one night I would atone for it the next day by running even longer and harder than I would have otherwise. Ultimately, I arbitrarily decided on a redemption ratio of three-to-one. For example, three extra miles run for every ingested decadent dessert.

My passion for physical pursuits has long since abated. Common sense and the passing of three decades are small parts of the reason I no longer sprint away my sins. The other 95 percent of my rationale is the fear of what the doctor who replaced my right hip three summers ago would do to me if he found out I was engaging in any sort of stressful exertion that might endanger his handiwork.

But everything worthwhile continues to have a price, something I reluctantly still need to deal with on occasion in order to indulge one of my current (and more sedentary) passions, reading .

Recently while checking out a used book sale I spied a thick, seemingly brand-new paperback no more than an arm’s length from where I was standing. The title on the cover was “Insane City;” the author was Dave Barry. Underneath his name, in smaller print, was a quote from Carl Hiaasen, who is perhaps my favorite contemporary writer. Writes Mr. Hiaasen of Mr. Barry: “One of the funniest writers alive.”

Full disclosure: I am something of a book snob. If anything, I’m contemplating delving into has a laudatory blurb from a celebrity-themed publication and/or one that’s written at a third-grade level I immediately put it down as not worth my time. But the back cover of “Insane City” featured testimonials from The Miami Herald, Stephen King, and the Christian Science Monitor, reputable sources all.

There was more effusive praise inside the book’s front cover from a host of eminently trustworthy reviewers, but more importantly there wasn’t a single word from USA Today or People Magazine. That was what convinced me to part with the dollar necessary to purchase this alleged comic masterpiece for myself.

Later that afternoon I sat down, began reading, and within the first 20 pages had affirmed that “Insane City” was indeed, as the Philadelphia Inquirer attested, “Side-splittingly funny.”

But after racing through another few chapters I began feeling vaguely troubled. The story’s evolving plot sounded a bit familiar: bachelor party planned for and attended by genial slackers; bride’s family consisting of pretentious, wealthy snobs; desperate refugees on a leaky boat off the Florida coast; incompetent hired goons doing the bidding of ruthless, greedy sociopaths; and scads of spectacularly under-dressed young women everywhere. Suddenly I came to a horrifying realization: I had just spent 20 minutes or so laughing out loud at a novel which I had already read years before!

My dilemma: should I simply concede I had wasted the previous one-third of an hour (not to mention four shiny quarters) re-reading a diverting but decidedly nonimpactful story and move on? No! Throwing caution and common sense to the wind I decided to keep on enjoying myself!

Several hours, countless chuckles, and numerous audible laughs later I finished “Insane City” and concluded my time had been well spent. But like eating that extra dessert all those years ago, reading a Dave Barry novel for a second time is pure selfishness. And since I am no longer capable of (or interested in) running three extra miles to atone for my sins I had to think of a properly harsh way to make amends for this bit of self-indulgence, and do so in an appropriate manner. The punishment would need to fit the crime.

After several days of sober reflection I finally decided on a suitable penance for my literary debauchery. After knowingly and willfully frittering away precious hours enjoying a story I knew I had read previously solely for my own enjoyment, the penalty is this: I most forever sacrifice the privilege of reading three popular and/or classic works of fiction.

So it is with great regret that I hereby publicly vow never to read “War and Peace,” “The Scarlet Letter,” and/or “The Art of the Deal.”

I can only hope my second reading of what the Christian Science Monitor called “…a hilariously dark farce [that] hits all the right notes,” turns out to have been worth it in the long run.

— This summer Andy Young is doing his reading (and his penance) in Cumberland.