In the iconic film Forrest Gump, Forrest quotes his mother, indicating that she said “life was like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re going to get.” The intention of the quote seemed to be, that life is full of surprises, and assumedly, since life was compared to chocolate, must also be delicious and sweet.
What if someone doesn’t like chocolate, or is allergic? What if a person doesn’t like surprises? Would anyone enjoy life if it was a box of chocolates, given these contingencies?
If you’ve never seen the movie, I nod to its contribution to modern cinema, acknowledge a passing pleasure in my multiple viewings, and urge you to satisfy any curiosity with two and a half hours of your time.
In the vein of providing pop-culture idiom/phraseology information, there exists a reputation bolstering boast that is punctuated by exclaiming that one is “all that and a bag of chips.”
Though I don’t really understand the supposedly, adulatory comparison of oneself to a bag of chips, this has become an often used phrase. I disagree with comparing life to a box of chocolates while also contending with the positive augmentation of ones reputation by addition of a package of crisps. If comparing life, however, to a bag of chips, that may be viable.
Life starts out fresh, clean, brimming with anticipation, unsullied, and unadulterated. It starts with a solid, firm structure, with directions, contents, and ideal ingredients all laid out in front of us. It reminds me of a brand new bag of chips. There’s so much flavor in the world to be sampled, so much hunger to be satisfied, so many choices in front of us to dip into.
And then the bag is opened. The moment of self-determination and self-awareness propel upwards with minute crumbs and chip dust in an artificial exhale of mildly satisfying, ozone like air that quickly dissipates with the jarring introduction of oxygen.
We consume, voraciously at first, selecting the largest, choicest, pieces, the ones readily available when the bag is first opened. We reach for our desired dip or condiment, relying on the fortitude of the full, blemish-free chip to support a brimming scoop of reality towards our eager waiting maw. With insatiable compulsion we repeat this gluttonous process. We bite down and grind the finest chips and flavor away with our mastication.
And then we find ourselves searching. We stop reaching without looking. A chip that is not whole and rigid is plucked from the bag, it’s missing a corner. We tilt the bag and glance dubiously over the edge. Sighing deeply, we glimpse whole, crisp, pieces still in relative abundance. The reality is, those choice pieces will soon need to be deliberately searched for, but at least, for the time being, they are present.
Suddenly, or gradually for some, we find ourselves needing to shake the bag. The largest pieces aren’t easily visible anymore. We are now sifting and poking through the bottom half of the bag. We’ve found ourselves choosing our dips much more carefully, as the diminished pieces don’t scoop as well. Occasionally, what appeared a full piece breaks as we pull it from the bag. Once in a while, just as it comes close to reaching our mouth, we drop it on the floor.
Eventually, we reach the bottom. Everyone knows it’s there. Everyone knows its coming. All containers of chips are the same. Even the cylindrical ones with the stacks that won’t be fully reached into, even those suffer broken pieces at the bottom. We find ourselves trying to grip the largest of the shattered remains to drag across the bottom of a once brimming container of hummus just to add a flicker of flavor to our crumbs. Alternatively, we start throwing handfuls of chip dust and scraps into our mouths to make sure we devour every measly morsel in the bag. Still another option involves sifting desperately through the crushed remains, finding little that are formidable or with which to spoon for flavorful additives, and to discard the entirety.
Humbly yours,
J