Today – okay, let’s be honest here – the past two weeks I have done a truly masterful job of avoiding the rewrite on my novel. Everything from the grocery store to the dust bunnies under the couch clamored for attention. Throw in the adoption of a new puppy and relatives popping in and out of Hotel Hughes as they toured the great state of Arizona, and voila. Word count: zero.
I am officially done with my slavish monitoring of the diet and healthcare pendulum. In the space of a week, I’ve learned that drinking too much water can kill me and that I’ll live longer if I stop waging war on my love handles and embrace those proverbial “last ten pounds.” As I sat contemplating whether I should cut back on the Evian and start considering Ding Dongs to be a primary food group, I received two e-mails from well meaning friends on the subject of folate. Being that this vitamin is part of the B-complex formula that I take daily, I was interested in hearing the latest findings. But my curiosity rapidly turned to confusion when I learned that apparently this innocent little substance could either a) help me prevent hypertension, heart disease and stroke, or b) cause a rapid decline in my mental capacity once I reached retirement age. Great. I can keep my heart pumping healthfully into my golden years, only to forget what I’m doing when I get there.