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About once a week, I shoot down to Living Foods on Perkins Road for a Mock Chicken Sandwich on whole wheat crammed with organic greens. I love the feel of an old school health food store. You find all sorts of things there, like supplements in every shape and people in Birkenstocks bitching about the government. Plus it makes me feel healthy, even if I end up buying chocolate.

I buy other stuff, too. With my fake-bird-wich I grabbed a big bag of Terra Chips (okay, the dark side again) and citrus-flavored kombucha tea drink to wash it down. Well-preserved, longtime manager Nelly Manning approved of my beverage choice.

“I drink this every day,” she said.

“What’s it do for you?” I asked. “I need it to do everything.”

“It will. It’s great,” she said. The label concurred. It claimed to address a dozen ailments from weight problems to bum livers. “But you know, Maggie, it doesn’t taste so great.”

Who cares, I thought, if it fought fatigue and tired eyes. Lately, the skin south of my peepers resembled rotten fruit: dark and wrinkled.

Kombucha and I made friends that week. I drank two bottles over four days, holding my nose each time I sipped. It reminded me of the fermented innards of sippy cups left in the car. Okay, maybe not that bad, but the fact that it features floating chunks and teems with bacteria, albeit good, creeps me out.

The result? I felt pretty good, but not tremendously different. I’m at a crossroads: keep at it and let its ancient powers build up, or chalk it up to new age quackery?