Your Honor, members of the jury, and all snacks and foods present by association:

I submit to this court that I am not at fault. That I have always acted in good faith. That my interactions with food — and snacks, in particular — have been reasonable, measured, and entirely in accordance with accepted snacking practices.

I will show, however, that certain parties — chips, pastries, and carbonated beverages — have engaged in prolonged occupation of my personal space, expanded their influence beyond agreed-upon boundaries, and in some cases, violated the terms of the Snack Accords.

And yet… despite these provocations, I have maintained decorum, loyalty, and dignity.

I love food.
And snacks.

And apparently, they love me back.

So much so that they invite friends.

They don’t rush. They’re polite about it. They settle in quietly. They unpack. They make themselves comfortable like distant relatives who said they were “just stopping by” and are now asking where the extra blankets are kept.

It starts innocently.

A handful of chips.
(Or maybe the whole family-size bag.)

A celebratory pastry.
(Or two.)

A Coca-Cola that insists it’s simply participating in cultural preservation.
(Okay, so maybe it’s more than one. Don’t judge.)

The sound is unmistakable — that crisp, metallic tssshhhk of a can opening on a hot afternoon. In Calexico, that sound isn’t just refreshment. It’s punctuation. The period at the end of yard work. The exclamation mark after mowing the lawn. The reward for surviving triple-digit heat without melting into the patio furniture.

It has been rumored that I consume multiple Cokes in a single day. The ounces have been calculated in the high 60s.

Still just a rumor.

It has never been proven.

I have never considered this an addiction.
I prefer the term long-term relationship.

It’s loyal. Dependable. It’s been there for me through Little League losses, late-night grading sessions, and that one time I tried sparkling water and felt betrayed by bubbles that tasted like regret.

Snacks have range.

Some healthy. Almonds. Jicama. Cucumber. Maybe a banana.
Some… culturally necessary. Chips with limón. Something dusted in red powder that leaves forensic evidence on your fingertips. A pastry that leans in and whispers, You deserve this. 

And when they hold staff meetings, the outcome is almost always overindulgence — washed down with, you guessed it, a Coke.

For years, we coexisted peacefully. The Snack Accords doing exactly what they were designed to do.

Then one day — seemingly out of nowhere (seriously?) — my jeans felt… conversational.

Not tight.

Just engaged in dialogue.

And hanging in the closet — quiet, dignified, fully aware — is my Traje de Charro.

Now, a charro suit does not believe in elastic forgiveness.

It believes in posture. In honor. In commitment.

It is not athleisure.

Mine has seen weddings, celebrations, performances — moments when music demanded that I stand a little taller.

When I first wore it, it fit like confidence.

Now it fits like consequences.

The first warning came from the zipper.

Not a dramatic protest. More of a strained whisper.

“Señor.”

I ignored it.

And had a Coke.

I can still zip it up.
I can still button it closed.

So what if I can’t sit?

Most gigs are conducted entirely while standing.

Then the jacket shifted differently across my shoulders. The pants negotiated terms around the waistline. The belt approached its assignment like a reluctant employee clocking in for overtime.

And that’s when I learned — reluctantly, scientifically, undeniably —

Apparently, there is such a thing as too many snacks.

Not immediately.
Not dramatically.

But incrementally. Respectfully. Cumulatively.

Somewhere between “just one more handful” and “it’s been a long week,” the charro suit moved from custom fit to emotional support compression garment.

Food doesn’t just love you.

It commits.

It brings plus-ones.
It expands the guest list.
It sends engraved invitations to areas of your waistband that used to be unoccupied.

And apparently, tradition has a circumference.

There is, it seems, a too-tight status. Even for a Charro suit.

And it has been activated.

This is depressing. So I have a Ding-dong.

The Traje de Charro waits.

Dignified.
Certain.

Because it knows something I know too.

This isn’t my first conversation with a waistband.

And like all long-term relationships, we’ll renegotiate the terms.

Probably right after one more Coke.

There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com. Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing – one post at a time.