Forget Squash. Talk to Me About Chocolate.

They’re going to change our nutritional guidelines again -- flip-flop the pyramid, or make it a wheel, or a shopping cart, and take out the depiction of a whole chicken, lest we assume we were meant to consume the entire bird. People aren’t paying attention to the age-old Egyptian landmark when it comes to food intake, says the government agency at the throttle of this weighty issue. To help solve the problem, the government is soliciting ideas for a new shape.

Well, I have an idea for the new, improved icon. Make it the shape of a cookie jar or a Starbuck’s mug, but don’t just tell me what I must eat or what I can’t swallow if I want to live to be 100. Instead, also tell me how much of the really good stuff I can chow down without seriously endangering my health.

And I do mean seriously. I know red wine is on the OK list, and that is good news because it happens to be my vino of choice. But how many margaritas before I’m on the endangered species list? I realize I’m a saint if I opt for fresh raspberries for dessert, but how many See’s chocolate nougats (dark, of course) may I pack into my cheeks without fear of an earlier demise?

We are all aware of the irony that a longer life simply tacks on additional days at the end, when chances are we’ll be gumming nothing but Jell-O and Cream of Wheat anyway. A good friend once expressed her dilemma quite plainly: “If I eat nothing but what’s on the pyramid, my life won’t be longer, it will just seem longer!”

So what is a joie de vivre gourmand to do? If they could offer us 10-plus years at age 30 -- physically and mentally -- who wouldn’t eat five to seven servings a day of carrots and rutabagas? But as it stands, we already stuff ourselves with vegetables, leaving little or no room for dessert. But what takes the cake (which is not featured anywhere on the current triangular geometric) is that by living the elongated lifespan, we will be forced some day to puree those carrots in order to swallow them.

So pour me another cup of java and tell me: At what point will it actually deplete the calcium in my joints, which already ache at 53, regardless of whether I have my jolt of caffeine or drink soy milk? At age 90, I might not recognize a latte. But right now, it and a cinnamon roll -- or two -- are just what the doctor ordered to make me a symptom-free pre-menopausal foodie, cheerful and alert.

Hey! That gives me another idea: Change the food pyramid to a smiley face, listing along the sweeping grin all the items we can treat ourselves to without fear of losing at least a quality-life decade -- or make it a fast-food pyramid, and we’ll jog instead of drive through.