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.