Pee Now, Pay Later

Summer is finally upon us dear girlfriends. With summer comes many of natures gifts… Sunshine, clear skies, long walks on the beach, fabulous strappy sandals and off course, my favorite outdoor swim. Yes, my cybersisters I do love me a good strappy sandal and I just adore Kitsilano Pool.

“Kits Pool”, as it is affectionately called is a seawater-chlorinated pool on Kitsilano Beach that overlooks the ocean and the mountains. It is, in short, a little piece of paradise. On a perfect sunny Vancouver summer day, it truly is the only place to be. The pool is 138 metres long, which means that 12 lengths of the pool is a mile. Twenty lengths of kits pool and a ride through Stanley Park allow me to justify the size 8 dress I bought on sale…. It is about 5 pounds too small but with just enough time spent in those glorious outdoor waters this summer and that dress will truly be made for me.

SO this Sunday I found myself swimming in the fountain of youth looking up at the Rockies and the Pacific and the sky each time a took a breath. The world made sense and I could have spent all day in that damn pool. That is until my bladder gave out…

Yes, my girlfriends, I peed in Kits pool. I did not plan on this little bathroom break. It just happened.

Okay that is a lie.

I could have gotten out of the pool, walked across the deck and relieved myself properly in the bathroom… but it was cold outside despite the sun and the pool was a balmy 27 degrees Celsius. I was happy in my pool. I was swimming and I was content. The water had chlorine in it and I had to pee. So I swam into the corner of the pool and let my bladder enjoy the view.

What is the harm? Why am I telling you this?

Well it turns out people who swim swallow water.

Very little empirical evidence is available to indicate how much water is ingested while swimming, but a number of estimates have been suggested in the last 70 years. Dr. Shuval (1975), in a review of standards associated with bathing beaches, suggested that swimmers ingested about 10 ml of water per bathing day. World Health Organization (2003) guidelines assume that 20 to 50ml of water is ingested per hour of swimming related activity.

A survey was conducted online between April 30 to May 3, 2009, among a national sample of 1,000 U.S. adults, using the field services of TNS Omnibus showed that 20% of people who swim in public pools pee in them.

The average volume of urine in a single micturation session (pee) is about 250ml.

Kitsilano pool is 138 metres long. There are 2.5 million litres of water in an Olympic size swimming pool. I estimate kits pools had about 7.5 million litres of water in it.

If we do the math, there are easy 10 people pissing in the pool at any given time. (There were about 50 present on this day.) This equates to about 2.5 litres of urine in 7.5 million litres of water.

If my math is correct (my mother would be so proud) that is 0.03 parts per million. Now, stay with me….

The average person actually swallows about 10-20 ml of water (2-4 teaspoons) according to a wildly accepted study in 2006 in the Journal of Water Health. I can go into detail how they determine this but safe to say- they took swimmers, put them in a pool and then measured their urine for chlorine byproducts and did the math as to how much chlorinated water was swallowed… very scientific, I must say.

This then equates to about a drop of urine swallowed every 20 swims.

Now, we’ve all gone to the washroom once or twice and forgot to wash our hands… Yes? I’m not saying we make it a habit but it does happen from time and again…

Take that into account 6 months worth of swimming in a public pool daily has the same urine exposure as forgetting to wash your hands after a good pee.

There. The evidence has relieved my guilt. I peed in a pool dear girlfriends. I’ll try not to do it again…. But I am human after all. Find it in your hearts to still love me and move on. Science has.

Out Damn Spot

As I write this week’s guide, be warned my sisters- my face in is recovery. Let’s just say, I’ve had a little “procedure” shall we?

Oh fret not my sisters- it was not a big deal and although yours truly may have a flare for the dramatic (this of course explains my addiction to Italian fashion) I am just fine.

You see my sisters- I have or shall I say had a SPOT on my face. Vanity or not, just to the left of my nose there was indeed a brown discolouration the size of a fingerprint. It is (or rather was) a café au lait colour and well, recently it began to really piss me off.

Now I should tell you in my recollection this spot has indeed been there for about a year. But it is only in the last few months that I noticed that said café au lait  colour developed a stronger brew. My spot went from mild blend to a café Verona almost overnight. This is of course my witty way of saying that the spot grew darker in colour.

I should tell you that I sought many an opinion for this dermatological dilemma. I asked colleagues and had formal consults regarding the spot on my face. I convened international summits of said spots. (No I did not… I’m just being dramatic).

When it first appeared I thought nothing of it. Like most woman of my age- I spent my teens lying in a back yard in the 1980’s on a plastic chaise lounge covered in baby oil waiting for the sunburn that would soon “turn into a tan”. You remember those fabulous lawn chairs don’t you? The ones made in the late 1970’s with the strips of vinyl woven across that when you laid on them, face down for long enough- you were left with linear imprints of the vinyl on your face and across your chest?

I was not worried about the spot on my face because 3 independent Dermatologist friends told me it was just sun damage. I reasoned that having almost burnt my face of on the side of Mount Kilimanjaro would indeed do that to a girl.

Full disclosure, my sisters- I suck at wearing sunscreen. It’s not that I don’t see its value, hell yah I do. It’s just that I’m rather inept at remembering. In fact it has come to the point that my beloved is now tasked to remind me to put it on.

This typically occurs around long sporting events- say marathons- where I am going to be out in the element for 5-6 hours and my dreamy husband makes the requisite statement in a conversation that goes something like this:

 “Sweetie, did you out on sunscreen?” my beloved asks.

“Yes, my love.” I say in a rush.

“Are you lying to me?” he asks sweetly.

DAMN. I am a horrible person.

And so I run the race with not much protecting me from the skies above. Such is it as well in the race of my life.

A few years ago I invested in and SPF moisturizer in the hopes that I could eliminate the hassle of putting added sunscreen on my face. I reasoned that if it was in the moisturizer I was good to go. Problem solved.

And then my spot appeared.

Yes, it was benign and yes, it can be treated. I will tell you the details shortly, I just wanted to cut the drama short and up front. But the problem was that it indeed messed with my head. You see my mother had skin cancer when I was a kid. Sometime in the late 1970’s she went to the hospital for a few days and came home with a large bandage over her left cheek. I can recall this in very vivid detail because I remember her telling us about how they were going to cut out the spot on HER face and then stretch the skin to make up for the place where the spot used to be.

Needless to say- you tell this kind of story to a7 year old kids and it sears itself on their memory while it is totally freaking them out. So imagine how many primordial neuroses were tapped into when a spot appeared on my face in exactly the same place as my mothers? Imagine my continued emotional paranoia when said spot got darker and a little bigger?

But then I met my lovely new Dermatologist- name with-held here. He is perfection. After a very thorough consultation he assured me that my little spot was an actinic keratosis. It turns out I also have some melasma on my upper lip. These are two common forms of browning discolorations that occur on the skin and are both often in response to age and/hormonal changes…. Who knew my 40’s would be so awesome? Can’t wait for the menopause!

My lovely doctor gave me a special cream for the melasma and suggested I have laser therapy on my face for the brown spot on my cheek (aka the keratosis- but I will call her Foxy Brown for fun).

And so this afternoon, I let a perfect stranger with a chit load of qualifications put some ice cold gel on my face, tape some UV protector goggles on my eyelids and then take a serious laser to my money maker.

The procedure feel like someone snapping a rubber band repeatedly on your face. This is followed by a flash of light across your skull. The sensation can only be compared to the experience of having someone light off firecrackers somewhere underneath your temple – not painful- but quite a light show. It’s not unpleasant actually- it’s just weird. Twenty minutes later, I was done. My face felt a little sunburned and the technician rubbed some vitamin C serum on it. I lay there with an iced towel wrapped around my face and contemplated what the days to come would be.

Yes, I could go swimming tomorrow. Yes, I could work and run and cycle and do all my activities. Yes, there would be some redness and my spot would likely blister. No I should not pick at it (oh how they knew me well).

Yes, it would take more than one treatment for Foxy Brown to leave my face but I should feel confident that she would indeed go.

The procedure being used to get rid of my sunspots was indeed called Intense Pulse Light or IPL.

IPL uses intense pulses of  non-coherent light distributed over a range of wavelengths from 500 nm to 1200 nm. The technology is used for both hair removal and for laser spot removal.

IPL brown spot removal works through firing short bursts of intense light at the skin, using a tiny hand-piece designed specifically for this purpose.  The light is absorbed by the colour in the pigmented cells, causing them to heat up and be destroyed.  As the epidermis replenishes itself the melanin rises to the surface of the skin, where it dries to form a micro-crust, which gradually flakes away leaving clear skin.

Of course this process takes time and I am told the full effect will be appreciated in about 4-6 weeks.

The same principle applies for hair removal in that the light targets the colour in the hair follicle and kills it.

Heads up sisters- I am also a hairy girl. I can blame the sun for the spots on my face. I can blame my Eastern European ancestry for the hairs on my lip. And so IPL is the perfect treatment for me… spots and hair be gone.  Two birds with one laser? That is a modern technology I can get behind.

Side effects my girlfriends are minimal. According to a study published in Dermatological Surgery in 2002, IPL is rather safe. The study looked at the side effects of IPL over 390 consecutive treatments.

The subjects had the procedure done and then photos were taken immediately following as well as individual evaluations by the patients immediately following the procedure and two months after.

Side-effects observed were: transient erythema (n = 30), late evanescent erythema (n = 3), mild pain (n = 43), moderate pain (n = 6), crust formation (n = 9), superficial burning (n = 1), isolated vesicles (n = 3), transient hyperpigmentation (n = 8), transient hypopigmentation (n = 1), paradoxical effect (n = 5), persistent local heat sensation (n = 1), and minimal scar (n = 1).

The study concluded that although some pain is common, sever side effects such as scaring are rare (1 in about 400 treatments)

And so here I sit, another week gone. My face still feels like I’ve had too much sun and the little kid in me can’t wait to wake up every morning for the next 6 weeks to see what my face will look like.

As a doctor I am amazed every day by the wonders modern medicine has to offer. We really do live in the future; a future where one day you can lay down on a table, shine a glorified light on your skin and wait a few weeks to watch it disappear. No matter what happens tomorrow my sisters… today was a very good day.

The Ultimate Girlfriend's Guide

A Good Tuesday to all my sisters. How yah been? How’s the week going? Anything new to report?

Enough with the questions but o understand that I am interested in your point of view. Speaking of which, I do have news.

Just this past week I spent some time on a couch filming with a fellow sister who is working on a  project about inspiring women. Your’s truly was a such girlfriend.

Let me set the scene. The project which is called “A Little Fix” is a web series featuring interviews with women who have something to say and something to teach. My understanding is that this project is based on the idea that when two women sit down for a conversation; an exchange of ideas, they indeed can inspire other women.

So there I was the subject of such a conversation.  My new sister, Emily, (I don’t think she’ll mind) sat me down on a fabulous set in Gastown and asked me all sorts of girl to girl questions about what makes me tick. Perfectly in synch with my mode of action, I spilled it.

As my sisters know- I do love to chat and when faced with a good question, I do love a good answer. And so Emily and I had a lovely afternoon chat over sparkling water and by camera light about such issues as:

Is Feminism a good or bad word?

What’s it like to be Childless by Choice?

How does one turn Multitasking into an art form?

Where do people find Inspiration?

Why are women so judgmental of other women?

The course of our conversation did indeed run smooth as we joked about our everyday including:

Why some people sweat more than others?

What’s it like to be profoundly honest about everything in one’s life?

How do you navigate being very straightforward with people without coming off too bitchy? (answer: you don’t. People often think you are a bitch…. You just learn when to apologize for it)

I left our meeting with a mind full of ideas about what defines us as women and what we want for ourselves and our species.

You see my sisters- sometimes being a girl really can be a emotional mine field. Make no mistake- I love being a woman. Never mind the footwear and clothing, I love being unexpected at every turn. I relish in being highly underestimated one moment and truly overvalued the next.

I relish in a world that constantly asks me to define myself on a the basis that I have a uterus and am not afraid to use it. I’m serious- this is not just the wit and the estrogen talking.

But there are those times when the double X chromosome job can sometimes be a bit of cluster-fuck can’t it? If we chose work over home life we’re heartless male wanna-be’s. If we stay at home and raise our children, we have failed to live up to our potential. If we try and do both…. We suck.

As women we rejoice in the sisterhood when it suits our own self worth. We are constantly looking outside ourselves for a relative validation form those around us. Women as a rule use other women as points of care for our own life stories. We evaluate our own self worth based on what we see out the window and not what is really in the mirror.

I could not help but think after my moment in the spotlight how all too often as women we define ourselves by what we see around us relative to ourselves and not by who we really are and what we really want.

Where does this relative thinking come from; this reflective needs assessment, if you will?

When did women place so much stock in the opinions of the many over the value of the one? 

The point is that often our own perception of ourselves make these definitions or judgements in the first place. I think that we as a sisterhood all too often reflect back from others the attitudes of ourselves. We see women not having children and make a judgement call about our own childless choice. We see a stay at home Mom and wonder about our own choice to work and have child-care. We make dinner and envy those with the means to outsource food prep. We feel the need to secretly defend our life choices- from shoe purchase to cleaning lady to job satisfaction all in an attempt to please an imaginary status quo.

When did it become mainstream for women to care so much about what others think at the expense of their own self worth?

I sit each day with brave (men) and women of all shapes and sizes trying my best to help them be more in a world that often insists that they don’t measure up. There comes a time in every day when I wish beyond wishing that I could somehow transplant in them a sense of well being…. A moment of “Good enough”. If only we could put on self confidence like we do perfume- spraying it at will to help cover up the smell of the everyday.

I’ve thought about this for a while now. You see I really believe that my parents raised me with an unordinary sense of self esteem. I mean- I grew up to believe that I really could do anything. Now so many years later- I live everyday with a man who really does believe I am a superhero. That kind of faith really can empower a person.

I have no doubt that there are studies that support the concept that if you want a little girl to grow up into a strong self actualized woman- you should tell her everyday how fabulous she is and highlight for her the depth of her skill set.

My Mom and Dad did just that. And when I moved away, I built a life with a man who every morning walks me through the Vancouver West End and builds up my ego for another day of battle.

I can’t help but wonder what the world would be like if we all had someone in our lives who tells us everyday how special we are. I wonder how that will translate over days and months as we slowly turn those words into actions and actions into our own belief system. How, if over time we eventually KNEW that we indeed were something else….what would the world look like if little girls everywhere grew up to be women who in turn became their OWN role models- no longer in need of an external measuring stick to actualize their own self worth?

Would we cure cancer and achieve world peace or would there just be an army of estrogen to contend with? Is this what the founders of feminism had in mind when they sat down years ago in the hopes of setting me and my sisters free?

Modern feminism is historically divided into three waves. First wave feminism began in the 18^th and 19^th centuries and continued into the early 1900’s and focused on the legal inequalities including the Suffragettes.

Some feminist historians say  first wave feminism began in 1789 during the French Revolution with the women who led the March on Versailles. Others say it began in Sweden in 1718 when tax paying women were given the right to vote. Much of the suffragette movement focused on the legal rights of women regarding voting and taxes.

Women received the vote in Denmark and Iceland in 1915 (full in 1919), the USSR in 1917, Austria, Germany and Canada in 1918, and many countries including the Netherlands in 1919, Turkey and South Africa in 1930. French women did not receive the vote till 1945. WTF France? Liechtenstein was one of the last countries, in 1984. VERY small country…. Enough said. (who knew there was small country syndrome?)

Second wave feminism is thought to have occurred between the 1960’s and 1980’s and is what my generation would classically call Feminism. (back then it was indeed CAPITALIZED)

This wave broadened the debate of women’s right to include gender inequalities, gender norms and the role of women in society. Here is where we talked issues like abortion, equal pay and a woman’s role in the home and society.

The third wave of feminism began in the 1990’s and continues until today. According to feminist historians (no capitals here) it is seen as a continuation of the second wave of feminism and a response to its failures. My understanding is that this wave of feminism tackles issues such as the modern woman’s feminine mystique, how to be a woman and still be a lady and finding some sort of middle ground for the 1960’s feminist in today’s world.  The third wave of feminism also focuses on gender inequality among women of all ethnicity. Where the first two waves of feminism were seen as focusing on the upper and middle class white woman, the third wave of feminism tries to further the cause among women of colour.

It’s interesting to review feminist’s history. There are definitely some iconic women who indeed stand out. From  Simone de Beauvier to Margaret Sanger to Betty Friedan to Gloria Steinem to Audre Lorde- my life is gifted by the struggles of some pretty pioneering sisters before me. These are women whose voices rang true so that mine could indeed be heard.

So excuse me my sisters if this week is more of a philosophical sonnet than a scientific rant. I could not help myself but to ponder the female mystique and see what came out the other side. Not happy with my feminine philosophies? Blame my second X chromosome…. That bitch made me do it.

I Gotta Be Me

I am told by those “in the know” that we indeed live in the “GENERATION OF ME”. Yes, my sisters- welcome to it- the age of the self. Never before has the world been such a personal place. Facebook pages, Twitter handles and personal blogs (ahem). We all have officially been seen. Today’s world is one where everyone- and I do mean everyone has their name on things.

Don’t believe me? Go to a Starbucks. Yes, my sisters- their coffee is not the greatest but in a caffeine deficient pinch- a girlfriend can’t be picky. And so there I was….. this past weekend. Two coffees into my day and desperate for a third. No judgement on my caffeine consumption- pay attention to the story.

I found myself in a Starbuck’s Coffee Company. I ordered my “usual” Grande mild in a Venti cup when the woman at the counter asked my name.

“I’m sorry?” I asked

“Your name…. you know for the cup”

“Lola”, I lied. It’s my standard tag name for all coffee orders. When pushed to identify myself to a barista- I cave and give my dog’s name. Why? I don’t know…. I’m an asshole.

But in the next moment, I watched the man behind me go through the same ritual. There he was, apparently a regular whose name was “Glen”. Glen proudly said hello to the barista behind the counter who by the way she greeted him clearly identified him as someone who “came there often”.

“Hey, Glen…. What would you like?’ she asked.

“I’ll have the usual”. He said.

And then…. This cute little barista committed a coffee felony. She could not remember Glen’s “usual”.

“Uh, Sorry,” she sputtered…. “I forget. What’s the usual”?

Glen was clearly not happy. This was his version of that scene in Cheers where everyone knows your name and sure enough someone did not know who the hell he was. Well, they knew he was Glen… but that was only part of the story. And so, I watched Glen shamefully slink back from the land of the familiar as he ordered his coffee just like the rest of the nameless faceless masses.

I took my coffee cup labeled LOLA in big black Sharpie letters and headed towards the condiment bar. And there I stood for what seems like a while watching Glen and Shari and Janice and Sienna all wait for their lattes and americanos and half fat, no fat foams. They stood there in coffee land wanting to be seen or not wanting to be seen and I got to thinking…..

My generation has no problem having their name engraved on a coffee cup on a regular basis, but my mother still won’t give out her credit card number on the Internet. Was this progress or retreat?

Was this the ultimate mixed message? We talk about identity theft as though it were a social case of bird flu- heaven forbid it fall upon us. But here we are one generation after another throwing our names and witty banter around like its oxygen- waiting for anyone to inhale and exhale it at whim.

Could this be the ultimate mixed message?

Here it is 2013.  Personal Identity is something we guard so closely but give away so freely. We post pictures of the food we are about to eat and what we did twenty minutes ago without a thought in the world. But here I was unable to give my real name for a coffee and here Glen was unsettled by the fact that some random stranger could not remember that he indeed like his latté extra hot and with no foam….

Incidentally Glen- lattes don’t come with foam- that’s a cappuccino, my friend, but I digress.

What is it about our sense of being that makes it so precious to some and so transparent to others? Here I was somewhere between Glen and my mother. I was unwilling to give my real name at a Starbucks but I will shop for Canada on the Internet.

I could not help but wonder what the proper course of action could be…. In short when it comes to identity, what’s the proper course of action?

There is of course another facet to this whole identity issue that we have not even thought of. Amidst our need for being seen is the concept that we indeed all crave for that spice of life known as authenticity. Yes, my sisters… we girlfriends, we can handle the truth. In fact, we demand it. Whether it is in our online profile or in the mirrors at Holt Renfrew- we want a degree of honesty that reflect who we are.

But at the same time- we all want to protect that level of privacy. SO how to maintain an authentic, personal relationship with the world while still maintaining your privacy?

The answer is…. You don’t. Make no mistake my sisters- I do indeed believe we can have it all but I’m not sure where the personal meets the private that we should. When you want the world to see you there will come a time where putting yourself out there really is too revealing.

I have thought about this a great deal as a physician. Here I am a doctor by day and once a week I lay it all out there (expletives and all) in a loosely based medical blog that no doubt some of y patients will read.

When do I stop being a doctor and just become a regular citizen? Has the Internet indeed limited this ability to separate medical church from state so to speak?

Indeed the American College of Physicians just recently released a position paper on medical conduct and the Internet. In this position statement published on April 16, 2013 in the Annals of Internal medicine the ACP acknowledges the power of the Internet to educate and inform patients and to indeed improve quality of care. However, the ACP states:

To protect patients and the public and promote quality health care, it is critical to strike the proper balance to harness opportunities while being aware of inherent challenges in using technology. But as others have pointed out, “Connectivity need not come at the expense of professionalism”

                 

And so as a sister, I do what I do best. I walk a very fine line in four-inch heels and I hope for the best. I put myself out there every day in my practice and here and there in the media. Judge away my girlfriends…. But not until you’ve walked a mile in these heels. And indeed, thereafter do be kind. When I find myself in a Starbuck’s ordering my coffee…. That’s when I draw the line. Yes, I’ll be real in almost every place in my life, but when it comes to my “Grande mild in a Venti cup”, well, that’s indeed when you can just call me Lola.  

I Run for Shoes

Yes, I am a runner. Fast or slow, long and steady…. I am a runner.  May be I’m in it for the shoes, maybe I’m in it for the health benefits… hell maybe I just run from brunch. But indeed, I am a runner.

It has dawned on me in this year of running that indeed there is a rhythm to the sport of lacing up ones shoes and pounding pavement or trails or treadmill or a flat surface of any kind in the pursuit of…. The pursuit.

So this past Saturday there I was with my last long run before my taper in preparation for my next race.  

Yes, my sisters- in just 2.5 short weeks I will run the Vancouver Half Marathon. This is not my first 21.1 km race. I’ve been running for about 7 years now. My first half marathon was in 2007 and I’ve been running them ever since.

I do love a good half. It’s just the right distance to allow me to eat brunch without guilt while still allowing me to walk upright the following morning.

And so it dawned on me somewhere along my recent 20 or so km run that indeed there are stages to a run.

Humans love to keep track don’t we? We love to record the passage of time and the stages of life. We have stages of  growth, we have stages of life and yes, even in death we have stages of grief. Indeed, one such girlfriend, Elizabeth Kubler Ross even documented such stages of grief in her world renowned work ON DEATH AND DYING.

As an aside- the book is a fabulous piece of work. I would argue it has become an iconic reference in our grief nomenclature.

So I could not help but wonder if the lessons from Kubler Ross could be applied to  other stages in life…. Perhaps the stages of running?

Let’s be clear my sisters- I am in no way poking fun at grief in general or a personal grief in particular. I myself have had my fair share enough to know that once in a  while a good laugh is mandatory. If you find the comparison between stages of grief and the following offensive, please accept my heart felt apologies in advance and feel free to boycott my blog for at least, shall we say, the next calendar year?

But if you are a runner or indeed you dare to try it, might I say in advance (and I’m not over-reaching) that I think you may identify with my following little rant.

THE FIVE STAGES OF RUN

STAGE 1: DENIAL

Denial usually begins the night before the run. Maybe you are eating a little too many carbohydrates, maybe not.  But somewhere along the way you think to yourself…. 20km? No big deal. If you are training for an even longer distance you lull yourself into a false sense of security of some kind. There’s no way running 38km is a bad idea? I’ll be able to handle it. This kind of blind disconnect continues into the next morning and perhaps even well into the first five or six kilometers of your run. I suspect its how a mother feels when giving birth to her fourth child. As the kid is ripping through her body with no apologies and no morphine she thinks…. There is no freakin way this is going to hurt that much.

STAGE 2: ANGER

Anger in running typically manifests itself in what I like to call ATHLETIC TOURETTE’S SYNDROME. This is where I swear profusely somewhere around 12 kilometres into the run and usually while on an incline. Anger is your brain’s way of bitch slapping your body for even thinking that 3 hours or more of exercise was anything but a shitty idea. Anger can also be directed at the skinny sister in front of you who is indeed the size of your left thigh and is running (and chatting) without a care in the world. She typically has a perfect ponytail that sways back and forth, rhythmically mocking you while your hip begins to throb.

Rest assured anger can indeed be a useful stage in running. It often propels you faster on your run and is a creative outlet for all those expletives you wanted to say in your everyday life but could not. When else in your life can the rubber meet the road while you scream MOTHERFUNSHOUSE for all to hear?

Fortunately, anger tends to pass as the run progresses. It must. Runners are a pretty happy group. If anger does not pass you will likely give up running all together and take up golf. Why golf you ask? Golfing by its nature is a very angry sport.

STAGE 3: BARGAINING:

Ah, the runner loves to bargain. Half way through he run you make deals with the road and with yourself.

“I’ll run to the next bridge and then I’m done”

“I’ll eat another energy gel and then I’ll run for another 45 minutes”

“I’ll walk for 60 seconds until I can feel my left foot and then I’ll start to run again”

As for me? I bargain with retail rewards. If I finish this marathon I will buy myself a new pair of shoes. How extravagant these shoes are directly correlates to the amount of suffering I am currently feeling in this race or training run.  In short? I trade my pain for something pretty. I bargain back and forth in my brain on how much I will run and nothing is for nothing. Yes, it is juvenile. But both my body and my shoe closet have benefited for some time.

 Bargainers often bargain well before the run…. If I eat this chocolate torte, I will run that 10km race…. Bargainers are everywhere and they do indeed drive the sport.

STAGE 4: DEPRESSION

Most people would think running is a great cure for one’s mood. In fact in many large scale randomized trials exercise has been shown to be an excellent treatment for depression. Here’s the thing…. Somewhere after the first hour of a three hour run you realize that you are only 1/3 of the way through. Heads up? That’s where the sadness begins. Some of us cry, some of us look at our watches and wonder why is it our body can’t go any faster. Some of us just settle in to the sadness and get ready for the next stage. Which is of course….

STAGE 5:ACCEPTANCE

Yes, my sisters…. Here it is. This is where you sit back and resign yourself to the fact that you are indeed a lunatic. I say sit back only figuratively of course begin stage 5 usually comes somewhere near the end of your run and by this point you can no longer feel your hips. Sitting down is not an option. Why? Not because of the will of a woman but because you physically can no longer sit down. And so like any good girlfriend with the will of a woman you just keep on running.

There you have it my sweet sisters. We are full into running season. The Sun Run is past, the Vancouver Marathon around the corner. The London Marathon safely complete and my love for Boston swells as that city begins the healing.

On this lighter note I leave you with the five stages of running that all of us go through in the pursuit of our own physical excellence as we strive to push the limits of human abilities.

As for me? I continue to push my own boundaries of fitness when the rubber meets the road. Should I fail to meet my own limits? I will always have my shoe closet to fall back on and remind me of the real pursuits of excellence.

Have a great week my sisters. Run safe and run strong. 

A Word

It's Tuesday my sisters. And I feel that today begs a different commentary than my girlfriends may usually expect from me.

As I write this my heart is heavy. I try in vein to make sense of the events of Monday, April 15.

As  runner, I feel a special connection to those who were affected. Runners are a community and a family. A marathon commemorates the triumph of the human spirit. It is a demonstration of what we do as human beings when pushed to our limits. It is indeed the best in all of us.

Such an attack is a violation under any circumstances. The fact that it was done during a marathon tries to vilify what should be the ultimate celebration of the goodness in all of us.

As a person- my heart hurts for the victims and their families. We all have the right to feel safe in this world and to have that taken away from us- is the ultimate tragedy.

I'm not sure what to do with this unsettled feeling inside- with the hurt and the anger and the sadness of it all. I tried, in vein, to write some sort of statement about it all in the hopes that I would indeed find a place to put these feelings.

Unfortunately, I don't think that this blog is the place for me to heal. And so, my sisters, I will refrain from a classic post this week. Rest assured I'll return next week with the usual wit and wisdom. Instead- my sisters.... I'm going for a run. It may not be the right thing to do- but for today, it feels appropriate.

Measuring my life in coffee cups

Girlfriends- let’s face it.

Life is about the numbers….

The first question we ask a toddler is… “How old are you?”

(Well that and “Sweetie, can you get your little dirty fingers off Mommy’s friend’s Prada bag?)

At work, I’m often asked about the numbers…

How long will I have to take this medication?

How high is my cholesterol?

How much weight did I lose?

In my everyday life… It too comes down to a numerical game…

How many pairs of black patent pumps does a woman need?

How many eggs could I sell to pay for the new fall lines?

Then there are the questions of my patterns of behaviour.

How many hours of sleep do I get a night?

How many cups of coffee do I drink in a day?

Truth is we all deserve some answers.

So here goes…

A woman’s right to shoes knows no bounds. A pair of black patent pumps is the fashion equivalent to knowledge. … Keep searching and the universe will provide.

I do get 8 hours of sleep a night and I drink 3 shots of espresso every morning and two cups of coffee throughout the day.

There….

I am told I drink too much coffee. This is often by people who don’t drink coffee and like to pass judgment.

Back in the 1970’s there were studies that suggested an increased risk of heart attacks among coffee drinkers. But the debate in the literature was never clear…

Remember my cybersisters…. The 70’s were the era when smoking was encouraged and spandex was king.

In response, researchers at the Harvard School of Public Health decided to look at coffee consumption, heart disease and stroke risk among more than 45,000 healthy men enrolled in the school's ongoing Health Professionals Follow-Up Study. Their analysis, published in the New England Journal of Medicine in 1990, found that coffee drinking had no effect on the men's risk of heart attack or stroke.

A 2008 study of more than 26,000 male smokers in Finland found that the men who drank eight or more cups of coffee a day had a 23% lower risk of stroke than the men who drank little or no coffee.

Results from an even larger study of coffee drinking and stroke risk were published in the journal Circulation in 2009: Among the 83,000 women enrolled in Harvard's ongoing Nurses' Health Study, those who drank two to four cups of coffee a day had a 19% to 20% lower risk of stroke than women who drank less than one cup a month.

A further meta-analysis in the New England Journal of Medicine in May, 2012 showed that coffee indeed does lower cardiovascular risk. During 5,148,760 person-years of follow-up between 1995 and 2008, a total of 33,731 men and 18,784 women died. In age-adjusted models, the risk of death was increased among coffee drinkers. 

However, coffee drinkers were also more likely to smoke, and, after adjustment for tobacco-smoking status and other potential risk factors, there was a significant inverse association between coffee consumption and mortality. IN other words- drinking coffee improved the risk of death (insert yippee here). Adjusted hazard ratios for death among men who drank coffee as compared with those who did not were as follows: 1% reduction for drinking less than 1 cup per day, 6% reduction for 1 cup, 10% reduction for 2 or 3 cups, 12% reduction for 4 or 5 cups per day.  

SO yes… my girlfriends…. It is about the numbers.

I’m a 42-year-old woman with far too many shoes. I brush my teeth twice a day. I have 4 credit cards, 2 dogs and never enough Prada handbags.

Some of my numbers don’t make sense… others will never add up…

But as far as my coffee consumption? I’m just right…

Foot Note

As far as body parts go, safe to say my girlfriends that my feet are not my best feature. Great hair, yes and a descent brain but my feet? No, it is safe to say that I was not blessed in this department.

Might I pause for a moment my sisters and ponder the fact that most of us do not have great feet. As a doctor I have the opportunity to see a lot of fingers and toes and let me tell you- a good pair of feet is not a common sight.

I bring this to light my girlfriends for just this past weekend, I had my first pedicure in easily 5 years.

Let me say that I am not a fan of the spa experience. I realize this surprises people when they hear this about me. One would think that a girlfriend such as myself would love the whole pamper and primping. Yes, I have been known to be a bit of a diva, shall we say? But here’s the thing…. I am high maintenenacen…. But I am happiest when maintaining myself.

Sure I love a good day of champagne and shopping. But stick me in a robe and put shit on my face and I am in a word- in hell.

Firstly there is the whole zen environment of the spa. I inevitably get in there and think of the million other things I could be doing with my time.

But there I was at the Ritz Carlton in Toronto with a $200 hotel credit and toes that looked like they had been through a war. What could it hurt to have some perfect stranger pumice my callouses for an hour or so….

That and they offered me champagne during the procedure.

Let me set the scene….

I arrived for my pedicure the recommended 10 minutes early to be handed a special form to fill out. The form asked my name, date of birth and my entire medical history. No joke. It asked for the name and address of my family doctor and a list of all my previous surgeries and medical information.

Like any good client…. I lied. It was a pedicure for heaven’s sake. I had no communicable disease. Hell, I’d never even had a cold sore. My family doctor was leaving her practice anyways and I reasoned that as a doctor myself- I knew what was medically relevant for a good foot soak. So I wrote down my name, my date of birth and left the rest blank..

It was then that I was called aside by one of the attendants and asked if my form was indeed complete.

“Are you sure we have everything accurate?”

“Yes” I smiled back confidently. This was a pedicure after all- not a pap smear, COME ON.

And then I waited. I sat on a lovely bench and read my New York Times and I waited.

Half way through the style section, Nadia, my lovely pedicurist arrived with a glass of bubbly and steered me towards what she called,  my “THRONE”. This is a large Barker like lounger with a bunch on buttons and an attached tub at the bottom where you put your feet for soaking and slothing.  

“Do you want to change into a robe?” she asked.

“No, I’m good,” I replied, “I’ll just take off my shoes and my tights.

Lets talk about the whole robe thing for a minute my sisters. I was not putting on a robe and some slippers all to have my feet done. I was in a perfectly good dress that would easily allow for access. Make no mistake- I love a good costume change- but I was NOT getting undressed for a robe and rubber slippers.

There’s the Basic pedicure, the Champagne Pedicure and the Spa Pedicure. Mine was clearly the Reluctant Pedicure.

And so it began. I stuck my newly naked feet in the tub at the end of my “THRONE” and let Nadia do her damnedest.

For the next 60 minutes she pushed cuticles around and pumiced callouses and lathered and massaged until my ugly ass feet looked a bit less ugly.

Here’s the thing about feet- mine in particular but most in general- they are indeed pretty nasty looking.

Years of running and wearing high heels and running in high heels has pretty much taken their toll on my little piggies.

On the toe nail front- I’ve lost every toe nail I own at one time or another. I like to think of them as badges of honour. I lost the big ones on Kili and the others in various races. As I describe this right now I see myself as a bit of a war veteran talking about the scars of battle.

I have a small benign tumour on my big toe- that can apparently be removed for cosmetic reasons should I find the time. Unfortunately the surgery involves not being able to wear heels or cycling shoes for at least 4 weeks so I will live with this tumor forever. Fret not- it’s benign. My addiction to four inch stilettos or a good bike ride is not.

So as I sat there in that “THRONE” looking up from my NY Times at my feet in the soapy water, Natalia reached for a cuticle cutter and I wondered about what kind of risk I was indeed taking putting my best foot forward. Perhaps I should have filled out that medical form in better detail? Could this pedicure really be a risky business?

According to the Toronto Public Health website- there are a variety of health issues associated with a pedicure. The website itself warns against contracting everything from a bad ass bacterial infection to Hepatitis C.

No I should say that I am anything but neurotic about the whole germ issue. As a doctor who spends their days around bodily fluids- I have no time to be neurotic. Yes, I wash my hands repeatedly and without fail- but no, I don’t obsess about the risk of various pathogens around me.

As such, I did not ask Natalia if the items she was using to gouge at my feet were indeed sterilized before use. I just assumed. And then I went to the medical literature to see if indeed I was at risk of contracting Hepatitis C from my Ritz Carlton Champagne pedicure.

Turns out…. I’m pretty much safe. As far as the literature goes, there was a small outbreak of Hep C in Turkey- associated with nail salons. In North America- we have bacteria infections to worry about far more than viral hepatitis.

According to an article published in Clinical Infectious Diseases Journal in 2011, Mycobacterium infections are quite commonly associated with pedicures. These of course are the NON-Tuberculosis variety.

It turns out that non-tuberculous Mycobacterium species colonize water systems and that exposure to them is quite common. The risk of infections, however from these bacteria is not so common. A recent outbreak in North Carolina saw 110 cases of bacterial infection from Mycobacterium fortuitum. This little sucker also called an outbreak in Oregon and California. People present with boils on their legs called furuncles.

The risk is much higher in people who have just shaved their legs prior to the pedicure. The problem is that the bacteria live in the water system and then infect the water being used for soaking. If you’ve shaved your legs recently you have microscopic cuts in the skin that allow the bacteria to get in.

Overall the risk of these types of infections is about 1 case in 100,000.

Safe to say- I have been remiss in the leg shaving department for a little bit. I was after all wearing tights that day, so lay off with the lecture. At one case in 100,000, I felt pretty safe indeed.

Nadia finished up her shaping and trimming and sure enough after a couple of coats of polish, my feet were indeed a new set of limbs.

Before saying good bye she suggested that I have a “touch up” of my feet in the next 4 weeks. Will I return, I thought? Will I, once back in Vancouver, find my own little salon to go to every few weeks to soothe my barking dogs?

The jury is still out my sisters as far as my need to primp my toes. I am safe in the knowledge that I’m not risking my infectious health to a great deal should I decide to add pedicures to my grooming regimen.

Has this recent pedicure changed my life, you ask? Not so much. Except to say that I have had an extra “foot confidence” this past week, that had indeed previously eluded me…. I have spent the last week wearing open toed shoes whenever possible. Far be it from me to hide Nadia’s hard work from the world. 

Viral Loading

As I write this my sisters- I am sitting at 30,000 feet in a tin can over Saskatchewan. Yes. I am on a plane and consider this blog my therapy session. For next to me at this very moment is…. Wait for it… the least considerate woman in all of Canada.

Indeed- she has been coughing every 3 minutes or so since we took off more than 2 hours ago. Yes, as a doctor- I should have some empathy for her upper respiratory tract infection. Truth be told I spend my life around sick people. I am neither scared of them nor worry. But this woman- let’s called her Beth, (why Beth, you ask? I don’t know- it’s the first name that came to my mind) well…. Beth had to be told that she might want to cover her mouth when she coughed.

Yes, after about the first 20 minutes of hacking in my direction I politely asked if “Beth” would mind covering her mouth.

To this she responded, “I’ve had this cold for about a week- I’m no longer infectious”. With that she pulled out a Kleenex and blew her nose in it. I kid you not. You would think that this would prompt me to discuss with Beth my medical background and the possibility that indeed she still might be infectious, but instead, I spent I rummaged in my handbag for an Advil Cold and Flu packet and handed it to my seat mate. Unfortunately it was of the “non-Drowsy variety” or I could have at least put Beth to sleep for the next 4 or so hours. Clearly this was not my day.

And so began my cross country flight from Toronto to Vancouver. Coughing aside- I was seated in a window seat and Beth was on the isle. I hate window seats on planes. In my humble opinion a window seat loses its luster after about the age of 10. When youa re a kid- the window seat is awesome- you can look out and see the tarmack at takeoff and landing- you can lull yourself into fantasy at the view across the clouds.

When you are an adult. The only benefit of the window seat is that you can close the shade across the window in order to see your computer screen a bit better. As an adult, the window seat is social confinement. You are subject to asking someone else permission when you want to get up and sit down. You must always smile obligatorily with polite apologies especially if you are trying to stay hydrating ona flight and have to pee at least once an hour….. just saying.

Safe to say that the window seat next to Beth also offer the added benefit of challenging one’s immune system to a wonderful game of “BEAT THAT VIRUS”.

Beth is a high maintanence flyer. I can tell this the minute she sits down. Firslty it takes her 20 minutes to get settled. Firstly she takes her shoes off to put on travel socks. Then she takes out her contacts and then she uses one of those Pond’s facial wipes to “wash” her face. Next comes moisturizer and, no word of a lie, eye cream. If there were a basin in the seat pocket she’d have undoubtedly brushed her teeth.

Once she has fluffed and folded, and prepared for take off, we begin the battle for the arm rest. After a good 5 minute coughing fit- I retreat. Beth and her bird flu can have the damn thing- I now open my window sill and stair out at the clouds….

I am sorry my sisters if I seem a tad bitchy this week. Beth is undoubtedly a very lovely woman, and I suspect had I gotten to know her- I would have indeed not judged her too harshly. But as I have said before, an airplane does weird things to people. Stick a group of well mannered individuals in a metal container with 30% less oxygen than they are used to and somehow social graces fall apart the minute we reach a cruising altitude.

My beloved compares an airplane flight to the first day of school. You know how on the first day of school you were always a bit nervous and a bit excited to see who you sit behind for the rest of the year? Well to my beloved, Jason, That is an airplane ride. There is that excitement and anticipation about who your seat mate will be for the next few hours? Will they be someone interesting that you can get to know or someone whose path you would have never crossed if not for this flight? Would you find a common denominator of conversation or would it be just a few short pleasantries followed by an in flight movie?

I must remember this bit of wonder while I sit next to Beth and her shtick and her virus. I turn to look at her and try to play nice….

“Are you going to Vancouver on business?” I ask.

“What”, she coughs and removes her ear bud.

“Are you going to Vancouver on business?” I repeat. 

“Yes.” She says and places her ear bud back in its place.

I try again.

“Is Toronto home for you?” I ask.

“What”, she coughs and removes her ear bud again.

One last shot….

“Is Toronto home for you?” I repeat.

“Yes…. I’m sorry, I’m watching this movie. DO you mind?”

If this is the first day of school, Beth has made it perfectly clear, she and I are not going to be locker partners. Nope…. Beth is not signing my yearbook.  

Maybe she is pissed at me for pointing out to her proper coughing etiquette or maybe she is just not feeling well. Hell maybe Beth is evil and this is a typical day. Maybe the coughing is the evil seeping out of her. In any case, we touch down in about 90 minutes and here I sit waiting for her to begin her “landing ritual”. Will she put back on her shoes and reapply her eye cream? Will she touch up her lipstick and indeed brush her teeth?

Will I go home and develop fever, chills and nightsweats? 

According to a review article published in 2012 about airborne infection rates in aircraft cabins the average human being releases 8 viral particles per cough and the average person with influenza coughs at a rate of 35-48 coughs per hour. This translates to 384 influenza particles released per hour. Multiply this by a 5 hour flight and you have almost 2000 viral particles all over me. 

All I can hope for is that I have been exposed to whatever Beth is cooking and that my immune system has already been primed for battle somewhere down the road. 

Not much evidence this week my sisters…. but hey, thanks for listening. In a few hours I’ll be home safe and sound and this will all be a memory. A very well documented memory indeed.

Spring Broke

Oh my girlfriends.... in the spirit of Spring Break, well, I'm taking one. Not from life but just from our little Tuesday date and only for one week. So forgive me my sisters if GGTH springs ahead and skips a week. I promise (pinky swear) to be back next Tuesday with all the witty banter and healthy rage you've come to expect from this girlfriend....

Counting the Hours

We sprung ahead this past Sunday as I am sure you are all aware. This year I must say that Daylight Savings (DLS)- well she kicked my ass. You see I spent the weekend in Toronto  mixing business and pleasure and my internal clock was already off kilter from the three hour time change.

Rest assured it was a fabulous weekend. It was my best friends 29^th birthday (again) and we welcomed the day with festivities abound. I should say that not only is she the ultimate soul sister- she has two daughters, my nieces, ages 6 and 10 who really are the apples of my eyes.

We began the weekend in celebration. Tea at the Four Seasons hotel (truthfully they no longer have high tea at the Toronto Four Seasons- fret not my sisters- we ordered coffee and cheese plates and definitely made due), This was followed by a trip down Bloor street and stops at all of my happy places. My girlfriends know how Good a shopper I can be- safe to say that this weekend I indeed did play to my strengths.

The evening was capped off by dinner with fabulous friends and then back home to bed to set my clock forward and begin another day. I had plans for Sunday my sisters…. I would go for a run and then spend the afternoon teaching my nieces how to bake an apple pie. Yes, we made the crust from scratch and yes it was perfection. The day indeed slipped away from me (damn you DLS!) but it was indeed capped up by a good round of dressup. It turns out that if you put a 10 year old in a Lanvin dress she feels as good as the 42 year old who bought it. Nothing is more life affirming than two little girls who think you are a cross between Wonderwoman and Auntie Mame.

But I could not help but feel like I was indeed short changed from my weekend of bliss.

I’ll state my bias up front…. I love sleep….. I really LOVE it. I love getting ready for bed, I love the feel of those cool clean sheets at 8:30 at night when the rest of the world is just finishing dinner. Those of you who read my blog regularly (thanks- I should have the ten or so of you for dinner sometime) know that I really am a fan of  getting my eight hours a night of slumber…

For me- sleep is like the perfect pair of strappy sandals… it should be cherish and protected. I keep my Manolos in their preassigned boxes. Why would I piss away an hour or two of sleep? I will multitask like a maniac. I will milk every hour out of every day doing three different things at once. But I WILL NOT loose sleep over any of it. Unless I’m on call, I’m getting eight hours a night. Let’s be clear dear girlfriends… if it is 2 am and I am awake… someone better be sick.

So you can imagine that springing ahead an hour should put me off. Losing one precious hour was akin to breaking a heal. It turns out, I am not alone….

More than 1.5 billion men and women are exposed to the transitions involved in daylight saving time: turning clocks forward by an hour in the spring and backward by an hour in the fall. These transitions can disrupt internal clocks or chronobiological rhythms and influence both the quality and quantity of sleep. This effect can last up to a week after the change.

A study out of Sweden examined the influence of these time changes and transitions on the incidence of myocardial infarction or heart attacks. The researchers examined a Swedish Registry of heart attacks comparing the of acute myocardial infarction during each of the first 7 days after the spring or fall time change. They then compared these numbers to the incidence of myocardial infarction  on the corresponding weekdays 2 weeks before and 2 weeks after the day of interest.

The incidence of acute myocardial infarction was significantly increased for the first 3 weekdays after the transition to daylight saving time in the spring. In contrast, after the transition out of daylight saving time in the fall, only the first weekday was affected significantly.

The researchers saw an increase in myocardial infarctions of more than 100 heart attacks on the Monday following the SPRING AHEAD period versus almost 50 less heart attacks on the Monday following the FALL BEHIND corresponding Monday.

This was also a significant increase over the previous and the following Mondays during the two weeks prior and following.

And so came the dawn on my Monday morning. I woke up at 7am Eastern which was indeed 6 am eastern and then really 3 in the freakin morning my time. All so I could go for a run and still be back in time to wash my hair. You see I was indeed filming a spot for those two fabulous boys- Steven and Chris on CBC- and it was imperative that my crazy ass hair not get in the way of my medical message.

But as I stood there blowing out my curls I could not help but feel the fatigue and indeed wonder how many others in the world were eyes wide shut on this Monday of Mondays?

I blamed the time change, I blamed the Daylight Savings. As for the Four Seasons, the apple pie and the dressup? It was indeed all the fuel I needed to face the days ahead.

SPRING AHEAD is a risky business. A few days later and the dust is just settling….

I am back to bedtime in my own time zone and up walking the fluffy monsters while its still dark outside. Frett not my girlfriends- like all good sisters I will do what a woman does best, keep calm, adjust and when in doubt- I’ll bake an apple pie and play dress-up all over again. 

Viva Italia

As I write this my sisters, Milan fashion week has come and gone (Paris is in full swing) and here I sit in a fabulous Italian coffee shop drink my Americanno nestled in the bosom of the MADREPATRIA (Italian for Motherland).

My cyberstisters know I hate to play favourites but what is it about those fabulous Italians? Is it me or do they just seem to get it on all fronts? Shoes, clothes and food- yes the Italians are the trifecta of fabulous.

Here’s the evidence:

ITEM NUMBER 1: SHOES

Did my girlfriends know that all luxury foot wear in this worlds is indeed made within a 500km radius if Venice. Indeed there are 3 luxury footwear houses that have been making fabulous footwear since the early 1500’s. Don’t believe me? Walk into any luxury shoe store, flip over those gorgeous pair of Manolo’s, Louboutins or Jimmy Choos and check the bottom of the 100% leather soles. What does it say? Made in Italy. Now put the shoes down, stop reading and try those sole savers on…..

ITEM NUMBER 2:CLOTHES

Believe me, my sisters- I’ve done the leg work…. Literally. Nothing says craftsmanship like a MADE IN ITALY label. I have the credit cad bills to prove it. From FENDI, to PRADA, to MARNI, to GUCCI and MIU MIU and ARMANI. Need I go on? Those dudes know how to cut a dress.

ITEM NUMBER 3: FOOD.

Imagine my delight when just last week the New England Journal of Medicine published the results of a large scale randomized trial on the Mediterranean Diet. The study looked at 7500 patients from Spain who were at high risk for cardiovascular disease. More than half of the patients had Diabetes, 70% had high blood pressure. The researchers randomized the patients into one of three groups. One group were instructed to eat a low fat and high carbohydrate diet. The other two groups were instructed to eat a traditional Mediterranean Diet the only difference was one Mediterranean Diet group had olive oil as their source of fats and the other had walnuts.

After 6 years of study Mediterranean Diet groups had a 30% reduction in cardiovascular events over the low fat group. This translated into a 32% relative reduction in stroke and a 27% relative reduction in heart attacks.

What does all this mean my sisters? What fascinates me about these studies is not that the Mediterranean Diet was high in olive oil and fats but more so what the diet was lacking…. Refined carbohydrates.

In  fact below is the figure taken directly from the study highlighting a list of foods recommended on the Mediterranean Diet.

Sometimes my sisters…. It’s all about what we take away that counts….

And so ends another week with an homage to my Mediterranean girlfriends…. I raise a glass of vino to you my sisters of the sea as I slip off my stilettos and cuddle up in my Missoni Pajamas. You girls really do have all the fun.