The little things

In the days of the American West, supposedly when an American Indian guy was going to war, he wouldn’t say to his wife, “Wish me luck!” He’d say, “It’s a good day to die.”

Today I treated myself to Taco Bell. And no, dear husband, I do not eat Taco Bell very often, maybe once every few months. I used to. Oh, yeah. When I had a 25-year-old metabolism and my office was next door to a Taco Bell, I ate tacos every day for lunch. Now … my fat butt constrains me.

But every once in a while, I indulge. Today was a good day for Taco Bell. It’s been dreary and rainy and cold for a few days, and I had to go grocery shopping, which is something I hate with a passion. So I got a nacho supreme and a crunchy taco and sat in the grocery parking lot, eating as slowly as I possibly could, savoring every bite. I made it last as long as I could, my fingers coated with nacho cheese and sour cream like a 2-year-old’s. And then I licked it all off instead of using a napkin.

After shopping, I treated myself again to a small skinny Starbucks. As I got on the highway to return home, a hot, carmelly coffee in hand and my belly full of tasty tacos, I remembered the Indian saying and thought to myself, “If I were to bite the dust here on the highway, it wouldn’t be so bad. I’d walk right up to St. Peter and say, ‘Dude, it was a good day to die.'” I imagine St. Peter would reply, “Dude, any day you get Taco Bell is a good day to die.”

Maybe in Heaven you eat all the Taco Bell you want and never get fat. Yes, that would be heaven.

About alisaacarter

I am a writer of young adult novels, wife, mom of three, lover of animals, former magazine editor, reader of anything paranormal, and coffee fanatic.
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