I think I’m Allergic to Nachos

If so, kill me now

Women, as a group, are believed to have an insatiable appetite for sweets. Chocolates should be proffered at every opportunity to keep us from becoming crazed beasts. However, I am a woman who would much prefer a salty, crunchy snack to a box of candy.

Specifically, I want nachos.

Typically without chili. Occasionally with buffalo chicken or straight-up grilled chicken. Evenly distributed toppings are a must. Fresh chips? Necessary. Black beans? Preferable, since they’re sort of healthy.

After a networking event tonight, I met a friend at my favorite nacho spot in Boston, the 21st Amendment. As we are wont to do, we split an order of nachos (just cheese, no meat). We conversed. We enjoyed an adult beverage. We paid our tab and stumbled to the subway, woozy from the onslaught of cheese fat and carbohydates.

I’ve been home for about an hour, and my stomach is doing backflips. I feel kind of queasy. What if I’ve developed an allergy to nachos? What if those were my last-ever nachos? What if I will never again know the bliss of finding the chip with the perfect distribution of cheese, salsa, sour cream, and pickled jalapeño?

If so, just take me out now. There’s nothing left here for me.