It is late summer and something is terribly wrong.

My favorite peach ice cream is glazing over with ice crystals in the freezer. Perfectly ripe Gravensteins sit on the kitchen counter, yet I hesitate to turn them into pies.

Wednesdays at work are donut day. Two weeks straight I’ve taken a pass.

Without a doubt, a malaise has come over me. All because of a blood test.

I got the news on my office voice mail. My “bad” cholesterol is higher than it should be, my doctor said. Not freaky high — my blood isn’t total sludge — but still, the number wasn’t ideal.

She didn’t sound overly concerned. I wasn’t summoned to her office for an emergency consultation. She’d obviously seen worse.

Which was of no comfort to me. My health indicators have always been reassuringly normal. Now I was supposed to sluff off elevated LDL — the evil cholesterol — as a non-event?

Not possible.

Typing “high cholesterol” into Google, I found a university Web site that explained things. It wasn’t reassuring. While I wasn’t necessarily a candidate for instant death, I certainly wasn’t the pink baby that my mother brought into the world.

The site said I’d better get a grip on my diet. Ice cream and donuts bad, leafy green vegetables and whole grains good. And watch out for those transfats.

None of this was welcomed news. I’ve gone through life as a voracious omnivore. I can eat anything anytime without gaining weight. I thought I was immune to the natural laws of the food universe.

What now? I have to pick and choose which foods to eat? I have to lay off the ice cream?

I felt an entire way of life turning to gruel ... or possibly oatmeal.

Cheryl took my cholesterol news hard. Sure, she was concerned for me, but there were unwelcomed implications for her and her favorite foods. Not for nothing is she called the Queen of Cheesecake and Popcorn Mama.

For years Cheryl’s mantra has been that butter is best. All that great flavor, don’t you know. Forget margarine and cooking oils.

The night before I got my cholesterol results, she had rejected dozens of recipes for apple cake because they used oil before finally finding one that specified butter.

We now looked at the butter cake as if it were laced with strychnine. Never again, she vowed.

I wanted to scapegoat the Napa Town and Country Fair for the spike in my cholesterol. If only I hadn’t single-handedly eaten that Pennsylvania Dutch funnel cake. I knew that slab of fried dough was up to no good.

Now I’m beginning to read nutrition labels. Grams of this, percentages of that. Saturated or transfatty.

Like I understand it all. Like I have a dietary master plan. Like I have the will to change my behavior.

Do you know what it’s like to skip ice cream after supper? The void in my life is as big as Daryl Sattui’s castle. I know not what to do with myself. To keep my stomach from grumbling, I head to bed early.

Before last week’s donut Wednesday, I went online to investigate why donuts get such a bad rap. Maybe the food police are overly zealous. Perhaps a weekly donut belongs in a truly balanced diet.

I visited the Web sites for Winchell’s and Dunkin’ Donuts which had nutrition breakdowns for all their fried goodies. I found rough comparables for my office donut.

It seems I’ve been eating the worst of the worst. Real fat bombs.

Way to go, Courtney. You really know how to pick ‘em.

The next morning, the pink box arrived in the newsroom on schedule. Barely able to contain their lust, my fellow reporters scrambled to pick their favorites.

Glazed. Old-fashioned. Jelly. The odd one with pink frosting.

Faster than you can say “sprinkles,” a happy vibe permeated the newsroom. Life is good when you’re eating sweetened dough saturated with oil.

Sure I was tempted. I’m still human. I knew there was more ecstasy awaiting me in that pink box than life would serve up the rest of the week.

A true gut check moment, this. Was I a mere slug, eating everything in sight, or could I control one of my baser cravings?

I turned away from the pink box and peeled myself a banana. A banana of perfect ripeness.

What a fine banana it was. Nary a bruise.

I enjoyed it a bunch. Fruits and vegetables are my new friends.