A Taco Bell opened three miles from my house in fall 2012. I visited the location before it opened, hoping and pleading for an early taste of delicious imitation something (anything) wrapped in an aged flour tortilla and smothered by beans, rice, and cheese. Heaven envies meals such as what I had in mind, but they didn’t serve me that afternoon. Whatever.
My begging trip isn’t a surprise, though. Taco Bell is my favorite food. Notice that I said food and not fast food. If given the choice between a six-pack of stomach muscles and a 12-taco pack of flab from Taco Bell, I’m running – no sprinting – for the Border. I’m fast, too, so there ain’t no catching me.
Why wouldn’t it be my top choice? Health be damned, it’s delicious. And imaginative. Seriously, how many times can they reinvent the burrito and make it taste even better than it already does. 10, 12, infinity? Taco Bell is an invention factory and not even Apple can compete against their ingenuity. My feet tap in anticipation for what their wish-granters dream up next.
This habit, err addiction, is a problem. I recognize that, but I don’t seem to be able to do anything about it. Since my dear friend moved in and ignited the Tremont sky with its purple and blue neon-ringing bell, I average at minimum 1 visit per week. Often, it’s more. 2x, 3x, once I went 4x. It has reached the point where I hide the burrito wrappers and brown, coarse napkins that are dead giveaways of my problem below papers and food scraps and other trash in the garbage so my roommate doesn’t realize the full extent of my problem.
I’m a border junkie hooked on smack more powerful than whatever Walter White cooked up in his RV.
I’m going to stop. I promise. I have to stop. In one month, I’ll be 31. My waistband needs a breather from stretching. Damnit.
This year taught me that I cannot control my addiction for Taco Bell. This year taught me that I loved every bite of it.
P.S. Good luck in the morning if you end your night with a cup of French Press coffee, 2 chicken burritos, and 1 steak quesadilla. A single word describes the body’s reaction to this combination: Pain. I learned this lesson last Saturday night and Sunday morning. Sober.