This is not currently on the lunch menu, but I'm not giving up on the possibility that one might spontaneously manifest on my desk. Stranger things have happened.
This is not currently on the lunch menu, but I’m not giving up on the possibility that one might spontaneously manifest on my desk. Stranger things have happened.

I am eating a bagel, and am doing so for my health. That alone should inform those in the know which way I’ve waffled in the end. (Ooo, waffles.) Also, there is celery, which tastes like ambrosia, and a hard boiled egg, my favored vehicle for salt.

If you’ve been following along, you know that I was debating whether and how long I could stand the Dukan diet in the full court-press of summer, given the wacky situation of my veins and general vascular health, which is not what you’d call robust, however predictable it is. Well, in the giddiness of being married for a full year I had momentarily forgotten the dehydrating effects of alcohol and went a head and drank some. Just a bit, mind. I’m not a big drinker even when I do indulge (the thirteen cases of beer in the living room not withstanding – and isn’t that just another blogpost for another day?) But we totally opened the last bottle of Elderberry Wine (and each had our single, small glass), and then later shared scotch over dinner. Which was enough, apparently, for me to suffer from heat stroke the next day – you know, the day of the week where I get to wear four extra layers of clothes that all button up to the neck in a hot, airless room in which I will stand, sing, preach, preside and politely refrain from fanning myself while I calculate if my remaining minutes of consciousness will outlast the Eucharistic Prayer, to say nothing of coffee hour (which blissfully, didn’t happen yesterday?) Yes, that day. To be honest, having fainted once at the altar, I have no desire (none, none at all) to repeat the incident ever again. Ever. Again.

So why am I still on this silly diet in the summer?

I’m not. It ended this morning when I didn’t have enough blood in my brain to use complete sentences in asking my husband for help in the daily forage for breakfast, which usually occurs well before he wakes up. Hell, I probably would have killed myself trying to navigate through the beer in the living room en route to the breakfast that would clear my head and give me salt.

Thankfully, this is just what happens to me in heat and humidity when I don’t take care of myself, or apparently, try a diet that dehydrates me.