Today I must give my deepest gratitude to the inventor of the juice box. Without it I fear many friends made over them would have little to remember me by. Barring the melodramatic sentiment of this statement, I present exhibit A: the mini fridge given to me by an exiting senior during my first year of college. It hums away night and day between my shoes and dresser. Within its cool recess perch tiny yellow juice boxes decorated with cartoon depictions of smiling apples and goofy, colorful letters. They fly off the shelf like hot cakes, only most of the time I’m convinced that juice lures more thirsty hall-mates into my room than would the wafting scent of baked goods. And what better way to save a waning conversation by asking, “would you like a juice box?” It isn’t, I’m sure, a question one expects to hear when venturing into an upper-classman’s room for the first time. There is something appealing about appealing to the inner child.
After a particularly bad day my neighbor will timidly knock on my door and ask in as small a voice as she can muster “can I have juice?” I am all too willing to provide. After all, in this case, unlimited access to my treasure trove of Motts for Tots pays for my portion of gas in her car—this, of course, is not the extent of our friendship, but bartering juice for transportation is an unusual occurrence. The cool, sweet juice helps her to a better mood within minutes as she sips it on my rug. The box sits in one hand, the other occupied by toying with the naughty Shakespearean poetry magnets splattered across my fridge.
So never underestimate the power of a juice box, no matter the age of its consumer. It can be a light at the end of a bad day, a conversation starter, a bartering device, and a fun excuse for friends to come over and chat.
No comments:
Post a Comment