We all have our vices. Mine is potato chips. I could go the rest of my life without eating another bite of cake or licking another ice cream cone. But man, if I'm ever on my death bed, bring on the chips.
I try to keep them out of the house. Or I buy the few flavors I'm not that crazy about. Then when the craving hits (hourly) I don't have any options that are easily accessible. Fortunately I'm too lazy to get in the car and drive the two miles to my nearest quick mart.
But I have to confess, I have the same exact thought every single time I open a bag of chips, big or small. As I grab that crinkly paper and pull open the treasure I can't help but lean down and smell the salty goodness that bursts out. And every single time I can't help but think I'm breathing in foreign air.
Michigan or Iowa or Nebraska air. Wherever those chips are made, in some factory in the midwest (I imagine) those magical bags are filled with a sprinkling of potato chips then sealed tight, locking in not only the snack, but the air from the factory.
So every time I open a bag and breathe in that salty air, I am borrowing air from another state. Air that traveled miles by semi truck to find me.
I dare you to open a bag of chips, from now on, without wondering where the air inside came from.