When Books are Bad for My Butt

I’m a fairly active person. I get close to my 10K steps per day. I work out most days of the week. I watch what I eat–I see almost every bite as it goes into my mouth.

But then, I start reading. Perhaps it’s a contemporary full of good girlfriends who share Chunky Monkey (it’s always Chunky Monkey) after a brutal breakup. Perhaps it’s wedding cake and champagne (which the bridesmaid will inevitably spill on the soon-to-be-hero’s tux). Perhaps it’s a Regency, with a picnic of fresh strawberries and cream and cold chicken. Sometimes it’s even a Western or a stuck-in-a-cabin romance full of hearty stew (from game the hero–or more rarely–the heroine has bagged).

In any case, people eat in these books. And they drink wine. And I find myself thinking, “Hmm…bread and cheese and wine sounds really good right about now.”

I cannot tell you the number of times the family’s evening meal has changed to suit the mood set by the book. It’s Wednesday? So what? Wednesday is WINESday. Hearty venison stew? No venison, so we’ll have ground turkey instead (and wine, because no venison.) No Chunky Monkey? Momma’s gotta bake some cookies, then.

So this year, fellow authors, I’m begging you: Write me up some sexy smoothie stories. Can our lovers dip two straws into one protein shake? How about Kale–can they rub themselves silly in erotic kale-play?

Help a gal out!