When a person has a heart attack at, say, 49 years of age, the natural inclination is to take a long, critical look at their personal healthcare habits.
Sadly, most people wind up faithfully sticking with (or eventually going back to) their Big Mac and Budweiser diet,
reasoning kidding themselves that, statistically speaking, one heart attack in 49 years means they can live to be 98 before they have to worry about another one. And I love that, because it’s one of the last remaining vestiges of true Natural Selection that still exists in the modern world.
But some people today are evolved enough to take the life-threatening infarction for exactly what it is: a warning that the time has come to drastically alter certain aspects of their lifestyle; a red flag with the words “you ‘bout to die, fatso” emblazoned across it.
A “health kick” often ensues then, bringing with it the very high likelihood the person will feel it their responsibility to make ever-sure no one ever has another heart attack ever again, ever. Ever!
An indirect and surprisingly unanticipated result of this, taking an example my own recent experience, might be a nice plate of home-baked oatmeal cookies shared with the rest of the office by the newly health-conscious coworker.
“Oatmeal cookies are actually GREAT for the heart…” he says as you bite off half a cookie and start chewing.
“…but only when they’re made with olive oil,” he concludes just as your synapses have finished translating the alarm signals emitting furiously from your taste buds.
As you cup your hands to your mouth and run hunched-over for the lavatory, flecks of spit and cookie spraying sideways from your contorted face, it occurs to you that any small favors your coworker thought he did for your heart will be more than canceled-out by the violent assault about to be imposed on your stomach lining.
Hey, health nuts! I appreciate your zest for life and obvious ability to learn from your past. I really do. But the next time one of you feeds me a baked good made with olive oil, I’m not even going to bother scrambling to find a vessel to catch my vomit. I’m just going let the liquid pastry fly right back to its maker. I wager that’ll keep you from ever pulling your veiled superiority horseshit on anyone ever again!
I need a mint.