“Dan, Dan . . . you and your rules.”
Jose shakes his head, displeased I’ve set aside the small butter cookie that came with my espresso.
“Life is to be enjoyed,” he says. “Please . . . have the biscuit.”
Jose is an old-school Portuguese gentleman. Refined. Restrained. Respected.
And apparently concerned I’m too uptight.
Fair enough.
But sugar is evil.
I’ve done the research.
Sugar jacks with your system at the cellular level. It messes with your brain like crack.
It’s ubiquitous. And we crave it.
I sure as hell do.
I grew up in a Cheerios house. No Lucky Charms allowed.
Which meant I’d go freaking berserk when I spent the night at friends’.
Kevin’s mom bought Frosted Flakes. He and I would eat an entire box in one sitting.
Chad’s mom bought Cocoa Krispies. And Mountain Dew.
And donuts! Don’t even get me started on the Dunkin’ Double Chocolate.
You can get away with sugar for a while.
But it will eventually catch you.
And no amount of working out will spare you the effects.
I learned that.
A skinny kid with a gut is a terrible look.
That’s what sugar does. And worse.
So, I gave it up. Mostly.
I’ll make exceptions from time to time.
But not for the cookie that comes with the coffee while I’m traveling in Europe.
Or for those little Biscoffs they give you on the plane. Even though they are delicious.
But, when Jose speaks, I listen.
He is thoughtful. And generous.
And the owners of the swankiest restaurants in Porto make a beeline for his table.
And every aspiring politician.
I’ve seen it.
He doesn’t intend for me to thoughtlessly indulge.
He wants me to take a moment to savor. To enjoy.
Not all the time.
But occasionally.
He’s not telling me to down a pint of Chunky Monkey.
Just have the biscuit, he says.
Allow yourself that.
So, I do.
And, I have to admit,
It adds something to the experience.
Thank you, Jose.
Yes, I’ll have the carrot cake on my birthday.
And an occasional dessert on nights out with my girls.
And, yes,
When presented the opportunity,
I’ll have the biscuit.