I had my semiannual, routine dentist appointment recently. While he was cleaning and polishing my pearly whites he was filling me in about the latest diet craze among his “golf playing” friends – touting “the juice diet”…. good grief. I nearly choked on my saliva if it wasn’t for that suction device hooked into my cavernous pie hole. “MMmmMMrickemrachemMmmMM” I muttered while he scraped away the plaque.
I’m sure my face turned beet red while my blood pressure rose as he raddled on about this nutty new craze where the company actually delivers these delicious tasting bevy’s to your door. While I was silenced by the work being done in my grand bouche thoughts bubbled through my brain about this fruity proposition, hmmmm.
Any car lovin’ man I know would never question the quality of petrol they pump into their muscle machines following the manual to the letter, yet they’re willing to pump anything novel and new down their own gullet that might in fact mess with their machine, their bodacious body. Gracious me.
I think we should all come with a manual from the nursery when we’re itty bitty baby’s. People might pay more attention to how special our “body as temple’s” actually are.