Bicker for breakfast

I stood there with an empty bowl and sky-high expectations. It was halfway through my time at breakfast and finally time to commit. I had spent whole minutes getting a taste of what was out there, seeing what options awaited me in the familiar circular kiosk, forging connections and tentative friendships with the various forms of grain and granola — but now things were getting serious. How would the process pan out? There was only one cereal for me, and I was getting ready to settle down, start a family. Well, no. Settle down, eat breakfast.

I remember the anticipation leading up to this moment. Looking ahead to those in front of me in line, seeing how they seemed to swagger into the dining hall with such confidence, such purpose. They walked confidently into the cafeteria with empty bowls and came out with a smile and a meal — probably also with a sense of security and the knowledge that they had made the right decision. But how? Now I had come to the pivotal moment in my time at breakfast, but standing in front of the array of cereals was intimidating.

I took one last glance at the kiosk, a desperate gulp of air before jumping into the pool: Smart Start, taking itself very seriously; Frosted Mini Wheats, bulky but obviously sweet; Frosted Flakes, exuding a sophisticated hint of sugar; Cracklin’ Oat Bran, eager; Cap’n Crunch, inconsequential; Corn Flakes, reliable. Seconds after making those cursory observations, however, I shuddered at what I had just done: Who was I to stereotype these cereals, when each was a viable option on a morning like today? It was time to start the process.

I had come prepared to answer a few questions, but the interview with the Frosted Flakes was surprisingly rigorous. I think I kept up, though, with their questions about artificial additives and the virtues of whole grain versus refined grains. I ran into a few familiar flakes and that was comforting, but before I knew it, I had made a move to the left and was playing Pictionary with Smart Start. My sketch for “soy milk” was a crowd-pleaser for sure, but I had forgotten to bring a copy of my breakfast history and accomplishments — rookie mistake. Another step over and around the kiosk, and I joined in a game of strip Pictionary. Strip Pictionary? The Cracklin’ Oat Bran insisted, and so I obliged. I was wearing the special multilayered pajama pants I had bought specifically with competitive breakfast in mind, but I’m not sure whether my multiple layers indicated forward thought or a distinct lack of sexiness, to be honest.

Again, I was on the move, hanging out with Cap’n Crunch and doing something I would tell you about, if I knew what I had been doing. It was kind of secretive, so I acted like I knew what was going on and kept moving around the kiosk to the Mini Wheats. The Wheats’ reputation — and sound — far preceded them, and I joined the raucous gang with low expectations and few reservations. I ended that experience with milk dribbling down my chin and an unclear memory of how it got there. Lastly, the Corn Flakes welcomed me with a notice that their competitive breakfast had occurred weeks earlier. Oh.

On that anticlimactic note I finally had a chance to catch my breath. The circular whirlwind was finally over — had it ever started? I was dazed. I closed my eyes and could only see different shades of brown, textures of wheat and grain and rice and rain drops of 2 percent milk.

But then I opened my eyes and looked up. I could see the dining halls pan out in front of me. It was a wide world of opportunity, from circular booths to long tables — a bastion of varied dining options and interesting conversation, with hopeful opportunities at every square inch. I was exhausted and worried and nervous about the results of the breakfast, but perspective has a way of assuaging those concerns. My clean ceramic bowl and metal spoon and set of 32 teeth would stay with me as constants, no matter what cereal I ended up with. So I settled in with some orange juice to wait for results, feet on the table with a smug smile across my face. Easy.