A burrito bar

My Body is an Engine that Runs on Frijoles

College is a time of exploration, a time where young men and women forge into the great unknown to find themselves, and possibly a career (haha!). It’s also a great time to experiment with life- a free trial of sorts, where it’s ok to go to bed at midnight and wake up at 7 every day. Does it work? Not very well, but it’s allowed. I am currently experiencing something similar in regards to my diet. Every day since I returned to school from Christmas Break, I have eaten at least one (1) burrito bowl from the Cougar Den.

Ok, that may be a bit of an exaggeration. I’m sure there’s a day or two in there where I’ve forgone my staple in favor of something bland from the caf, but generally it’s pretty accurate. Taste buds are subjective and unique, and mine point me squarely in the direction of the Cougar Den. It’s part of my identity at this point.

A burrito bowl

I feel a little guilty about this. I think someone told me it’s important to have a diverse palette, but I haven’t done research to figure out whether or not eating a burrito bowl every day is healthy. My burnt-out brain, cluttered with data from the day’s studies, simply cannot be bothered to process anything adventurous, and opts for comfort every time.

It’s the same order every day, too. Brown rice, pinto beans, pork, cheese and lettuce, sour cream and salsa verde. Sometimes a side of tortilla chips. I lack the courage (or the brainpower) to try anything else. I am wandering absentmindedly through a desert of mundanity, and this is my manna. I’m on autopilot every day as I stroll to the counter. My order does not take the form of meaningful words, it is merely a recitation. Kind of like the national anthem. How often do you sing The Star Spangled Banner while thinking about the symbolism of a flag sittin’ in some fort in Baltimore?

Maybe my burrito bowls reflect the everyday monotony of life in a pandemic. Each day seems so much the same, and that’s reflected in my diet. Probably not. I think it’s just me settling into a routine and prioritizing comfort over adventure, and drifting further from the exuberance of my youth. I’m becoming an adult. I weep for the death of my spirit. May the salt of my tears season my tortilla chips.

Will Klumpenhower (@wklumpenhower) is not an adult, and he resents the fact that the government treats him as one. When not writing for CougMedia, he enjoys picking his nose and throwing sticks around the yard.

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