When I travel I hoard snacks. I have crumbled miniature pretzel bags, crumbled miniature brownie crisps, crumbled (and sticky) miniature stroopwafel’s, and full sized granola bars that are SO crumbled that they have gone back to their original state as granola. And I have Chex Mix. The Chex mix is no more crumbled than in its natural state where most of the characters are whole but some pretzels have lost their salt, some chex have splintered weave and some plain squiggle pieces have picked up some of the seasoning of the very divisive rye bagel crisps. The reason the Chex Mix isn’t mashed at the bottom of my carry-on like the other single serve sustenance is that I eat it. And appreciate (almost) every bite.
We all have friends like these.
YOU.
The original Chex. There wouldn’t be a mix at all without you.
YOUR BESTIES…
Here you are with your buddies in elementary school. You have the same haircut in slightly different shades. They come to your sleepovers and stay for breakfast to talk about the other kids. Who was spicier than you thought, who is already part of a couple, who shouldn’t have been invited at all.
THE PRINCESS.
There she is in your middle school homeroom. She takes the aisle seat in the second to last row in Homeroom (Homeroom! You are old enough for homeroom!) and there is a subtle scrum to determine who takes the seat next to her. She has an overall gleam to her, like her sparkly lipgloss or pale nail polish she is finished in a way that you never knew you wanted. Her life is simple. Her days and weeks and years flow together in a smooth cycle. Not boring but somehow elegant.
THE BROKEN ONE.
You meet her at lit mag in 9th grade. You assume she is a sophmore. But no, she is a ninth grader like you and somehow not like you at all. She has a Moleskin notebook with a black thin point Sharpie that bleeds through the pages. A metaphor. You slip your stickered spiral bound wide rule into your purple Jansport bag. Unlike you, STUFF has happened to her. You can see her loss in the uneven edges that she shows the world. She doesn’t want to be fixed, but you still stand by her side. Because there you might look interesting too. Forgive the picture for being fuzzy. She doesn’t like to be photographed. Sketches are better…and if you have to take a pitcure it should really be of moss growing on rocks by the river.
THE SQUARE.
You are a senior. She has been in your honors classes for three years and you have always been politely friendly. She would have happily seen you outside of school but you pretended you didn’t know that. Since your elementary school friends moved into their own mixes you have been a supporting (and supportive) character to both the polished princess (“your legs look amazing in that skirt”) and the the broken artist (you should absolutely send your Carvaggio’s beheading Ode to relationships collage to Visual Verse, they will publish it and ask for more!). It is time to have your own sidekick. So you meet for coffee and talk about your college essay and she asks you about your travels and after she has bussed your dishes you realize you realize you haven’t asked her a single question. “How are you doing?” you manage on the sidewalk outside of the cafe. “Oh we can talk about me next time.” She says, reading what has always been your line in the script.
THE PARTIER.
Your broken artist brought him over. He is broody like her, but a lot spicier too. Your friends either love him or hate him. In the afternoon you can’t get enough. He is smart, crackles, he smokes pot and doesn’t pressure you when you say no. Unlike the other stoners being high makes him burn a little brighter. His taste surprises you. At the beginning you can’t even look at anyone else, moving through the crowd just to catch a glimpse of him. Sorting away all of the others to put your lips on him. But at the end of the night you just need a little space, and when he is still there the next morning your stomach turns and you don’t want to see him again. Until next time when you have forgotten what you feel like the next morning and he looks so good again.
THE FOLLOWERS.
They showed up with the artist and the partier. They looked so bland but that night a little bit of the moodiness and sharpness of their friends have rubbed off on them. They are not bad on the surface at all but inside…nothing. They have no substance, no taste, they leave you feeling dry, needing water and to stand up and do something else. But they show up the next day, and the next, and eventually, when you get really lonely you realize they are all that you have left. It isn’t a mix anymore. And you are forced to hang out with them until they leave you one by one.
Dear Anna,
We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice ourselves for you. But we think you’re crazy for writing an essay telling readers who you think we are. You see us as you want to see us… In the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is an original, a princess, and a broken one. We are all a partier and a followe.
Sincerely yours, the Chex Mix.
And you are forced to go to college and start again with a new mixed bag. Maybe someday you can learn what they have to teach you.
Do you have a favorite piece of the Chex Mix?
LOVE THIS
You nailed it, Anna. Gawd, I miss that shizz. I used to eat Chex Mix in order of least-loved. The followers, then the princesses and squares, the broken and the partiers, then me and my besties. It's what I call "an activity snack". There is a sense of order and purpose and...the next thing you know, you're at the bottom of the bag. xo