I am standing in my pantry. When I was growing up, we could only stand “at” the pantry. A small closet in the corner of our kitchen. Crude plywood shelves. A single GE light bulb dangling from a non-shielded wire with a cotton pull-string. The fly swatter hanging from a nail on the back of the door.

I’d stand there and gaze into the abyss of cans and jars and bottles. I felt queasy because the light bulb was swinging back and forth from the motion created when I pulled the string.

“Will you bring me the Crisco?” my mama asked.

I’d look and dig through the shelves until I found it. Pull the string again. Then close the door.

Our main panel box for the entire house was on the back wall of that pantry. If a fuse blew, 14 cans of Carnation Evaporated Milk, three bottles of Hunts Ketchup, 4 cans of Hormel Corned Beef, 2 bottles of Aunt Jemima Syrup, 20 pounds of Dixie Crystal sugar all had to be moved out of the pantry and onto the counter. Add to that a three month’s supply of salmon, tuna, salt, Saltine crackers, Captain Crunch, Grits, bags of flour, Leisure Peas, and extra cornmeal.

Everything on two shelves had to come out so Dad could remove the two middle shelves that were in front of the door to the electrical panel. We didn’t have circuit breakers back then. You couldn’t just flip the breaker back on. Our panel box had the round “plug fuses” that screwed into the box like a light bulb.

Extra fuses were kept in the kitchen junk drawer, along with tape, scissors, a couple of screw drivers, a bottle of dried Elmer’s Glue, bread ties, and other critical-essential items.

My pantry is a separate room adjacent to the kitchen. Small, but spacious as far as pantries go. I can walk into my pantry and turn circles around shelves on three walls. There is a light switch on the wall and a fixture on the ceiling.

When I built this house over 25 years ago, I purposefully did not put the main panel box in here behind the pantry shelves. I’m smarter than that. My panel box is located in the crawlspace beneath the house.

Now, this does mean that if a circuit trips, I have to go outside and walk in under the house to flip the breaker. But I’m sure you’d agree that this is way easier than clearing the pantry.

Especially at night in the pouring rain.

I didn’t mean to tell you all of this when I walked into the pantry. It just sort of came to me. What I wanted to tell you is that I am gazing at the potato chips.

I love potato chips. I like almost any flavor except the Cool Ranch Doritos. And spicy, hot chips. I don’t like my mouth to burn when I eat chips. But any salty, cheesy chip is okey-doke by me.

I have four bags sitting in the basket in my pantry. Three of them have been opened, folded over, and are secured tightly with an old fashioned, wooden clothes pin. I have salty nachos, BBQ chips, Ruffles, and a bag of Harvest Cheddar Sun Chips.

Right now, at this very moment, I could eat any one of them. Because, like I said, I love chips.

I’ve eaten chips with my lunch almost every day of my life since first grade. Mama mostly gave me regular Lays chips in a plastic baggy. She’d stuff them inside my GI Joe lunch box with a ham sandwich and a Zinger. Sweet tea in my thermos.

I learned that I could trade my chips for about anything that somebody else brought for lunch. The right chips give a kid magical powers. The salt and the grease would make my buddies salivate for a bite. And I can testify that the old commercial speaks the truth. You can’t eat just one.

My taste in chips evolved over time. When I was in college, I could eat an entire tube of Pringles while studying in the afternoon and still go to the cafeteria for a full supper of country fried steak and mashed potatoes, with gravy.

Not long after I got married, I got hooked on Ruffles with ridges. Add some French onion dip and you’ve got yourself a taste of heaven. I’ve forgotten who introduced me to this combination, but may they be blessed forever more. If I get invited to a party and I’m asked to bring the chips, this is my “go to” chip and dip. I figure if nobody likes it, I’ll bring it home and eat the whole thing myself.

I like Fritos. I like original Doritos. I love sour cream and onion. I lick my fingertips when I eat salt and vinegar. I lap my entire hand like a dog when I eat Cheetos, plus my pant leg turns orange for some reason.

But here’s the thing. I’m at the latter end of my sixties. My belly is bulging enough that my granddaughter wants to know if I’m pregnant. I suck in and hold my breath when I know my picture is being taken. I haven’t seen my abs since I was 40.

While I know that there are a lot of contributing factors to my current condition, some of which are beyond my control, I know that eating chips by the handful is not helping. I hate to say it, but chips are not my friend anymore.

I’m reading the label on a bag of Ruffles. There are enough grams of fat in one serving to choke an elephant. And according to the scientist in the Frito-Lay laboratory, who probably hates chips, one serving is equivalent to about 12 chips.

Who eats just 12 chips? I don’t have that will power. When I eat chips, I eat 12 in one bite.

By my estimation, even the Party Size bag only has enough chips in it for three people. There’s more air than chips. And the chips are mostly all broken. I can’t tell when I’ve eaten 12 chips because there’s not a whole intact chip in the entire bag.

The way I figure it, it takes about six pieces to make one chip. My math says that 60 pieces equal one serving. So, by the time I finish a bag, I’m pretty sure I’ve only had three servings.

This is how I lie to myself when it comes to chips. In fact, I’m standing here now telling myself to go ahead and have a chip. It can’t be that bad.

I mean, I have Botox-girls on FB tell me all the time that I look great and that they’d love to meet me and share personal bank account information. They say I look like a fun guy. So, I’m thinking that eating chips can’t be all that bad.

Who am I kidding? The bathroom scales have been going up for years now. It’s finally gotten to me enough that I’ve decided to cut out the chips. I miss them.

Which is why I’m standing alone in my pantry looking at chips.

I’m pathetic.