Thursday, February 25, 2016

Death by Taco

Sometimes I leave the house in a hurry and don't eat breakfast. I may manage to stuff a few nuts in a baggie or a tangelo in my backpack. By the time I arrive home, I can be ravenously hungry.

Today was the above scenario, and I started thinking about Tony's tacos the minute I pulled out of the parking lot. Didn't even change my clothes, but walked directly into the kitchen, opened the fridge and pulled out the glass containers with matching blue lids--my taco filling neatly divided and ready to scoop. Within seconds, I was stuffing my hungry face with tacos.

I'm thankful I'm not part of a reality TV show or that no one would care enough to place a hidden camera in my kitchen, because I caught an imaginative glimpse of myself dying while choking on a taco. Yes, dying. My bites were so fast and so big, that an unusually large piece of romaine lettuce wedged itself nicely between taco, teeth, and throat. There was never any real danger; I didn't have to perform the self-heimlich over the back of a chair. I didn't even have to stop eating. Didn't have to get a glass of water. Never even paused. It was just a milli second of Oh no, what have I done, and I could actually choke and die on this taco. And then I started to laugh, to myself-- not outwardly, or I really would have choked. No room for lettuce and laughter.

That would have been funny, I realized when the danger had passed. I thought of all the people who would have wanted to laugh had they heard the news that I'd died while stuffing eating a taco, but they would have been constrained by sadness or decorum or the pressure of behaving in a  socially normal capacity.

I hereby give you permission to laugh if you ever hear that I died while eating a taco, but only after   reminiscing over a fond memory, and wiping one tiny tear as it rolls down your cheek. Then you may laugh and laugh hearty you may. Irony requires that I will be laughing too.