Chipotle. A Girl’s Best Friend.
Outside of babies and men in tank tops, not a lot scares me. Not even the threat of horrifying disease running rampant through the lettuce at Chipotle. My sister texted me after the most recent rash of illness shooting through my Tex-Mex mecca. At the end of her text she warned me in all caps, “DO NOT GO TO CHIPOTLE ANYMORE!” Whatever. My sister’s a wuss and I like living on the edge.
You’re not going to stop me from eating at Chipotle. It’s a lifeline for those of us born with the genetic abnormality that won’t allow cooking without fire damage and ambulance services. As I stood in line yesterday afternoon for my oval trough of black beans, shredded lettuce, mild tomatoes, cheese and guacamole, I thought about the possibilities of being poisoned by Norovirus tainted produce.
What’s the worst case scenario here? It’s probably not going to go all the way to death. However, I could be so incapacitated that my stomach would reject all contents for a period of time. Uncomfortable, yes. Truly terrible? Maybe not. Stomach flus are bad but after you turn the corner, your jeans fit really nicely. I have a trip to Costa Rica fast approaching so this could all work to my advantage. Bathing suits are tiny little pieces of fabric that don’t offer the same kind of compression system as my Lululemon pants. Days of continuously losing your lunch = a much better waistline.
I am continuing to eat my bowl of pretend Mexican food on a more than reasonable regular basis. Each day I avoid illness feels like a victory, like I am one of the few who beat the bubonic plague. I certainly hope I won’t go down for a dirt nap by eating at Chipotle. But if death should come, prop me up and get that bikini picture to use at my funeral.