Chipotle Heaven
The media below contains the opinion of an individual student and therefore does not represent or speak to the values of Vestavia Hills High School and Vestavia Hills City Schools.
Some people cope with caffeine. Others with retail therapy, late-night journaling, or aggressively sobbing into a weighted blanket. Me? I cope with Chipotle. It sounds stupid. I know what you're thinking: is that a cry for help? And the answer is yes: I may need a little help, but more than that, the answer will always be yes to a cry for extra vinaigrette.
See, I’m not one of those teens with healthy boundaries or a functioning circadian rhythm. Sleep is secondary, because at this point in my life, I am built differently, and by different, I mean built entirely on a foundation of stress, AP exams, and one burrito-sized beacon of hope. High school, at times, can definitely be tough, and that is exactly why having a source of coping-wrapped-in-foil, or in other words, a Chipotle burrito, makes my day instantly better.
Life is great at times, and at others, not so much. So when life implodes with falling grades, tennis tournament losses, or even the existential dread triggered by a single Google Classroom notification, I turn to a sizzling fajita-packed burrito, which, according to my mom, has enough sodium to tranquilize a horse. And that is really saying something.
Some people go to therapy to destress. Me? I go to the Chipotle app. Same serotonin, faster results. Let me make something really clear. Chipotle is my edible emotional support system. My tortilla-based therapist. My portable antidepressant with a side of corn salsa. It really is transformative, but more than the taste, it is the sentiment behind it.
I remember taking the ACT for the first time. Three hours later–Chipotle. Chipotle has been a constant presence in each moment of my life, from the highs to the lows. It was something I could rely on always, something that didn’t cancel on me last-minute because the “copay didn’t go through”. No, it’s always there: warm, heavy, and freakishly oily at times, even leaking into the paper bag like a greasy hug from a friend.
Even if Chipotle had always been there growing up, that didn’t mean that I always had it. Being completely honest, I didn’t even know what Chipotle was until I was like 10. Fast food was viewed differently when I was younger. I grew up in a traditional Indian household, where “comfort food” meant dal, sabzi, and endless lectures about wasting money. So you can probably imagine what happened whenever I asked to go out with friends. My parents looked at me with their brows turned up, as I had just made a life-altering decision. To put it simply, going out to eat was like asking for an inheritance early.
Mom and Dad had one motto: If it costs more than $3 and doesn’t come with leftovers, it’s a scam and definitely not worth it. That is how Taco Bell became the default:
$1.29 bean burrito and fire sauce, spicy enough to give us a change from the monotonous Indian food cycle, but also enough digestive regret to keep us humble.
But one day, we leveled up. My parents unlocked three more budget dollars, and like every immigrant family chasing the American Dream, we changed up. That change was the peak of my life. We had officially upgraded to Chipotle. When I had my first burrito, of course, my dad still called it a quesadilla. My mom, though, her idea of it still makes me laugh to this day. Literally word for word, she said, “It’s just a big roti with salsa.”
Which, being completely honest, tracks.
Years later, I’ve ritualized the burrito. Every overnight debate trip? Ends with Chipotle. Every tennis tournament? Maybe I lose, but burritos sure do get devoured. Chipotle burritos have the ultimate respect from my heart forever, and that is because of one instance. There was a day that I tried making it at home once to save money. The result, pretty devastating. I had seen the Chipotle employees make the burrito so many times, but still, everything went wrong. Tortilla tore in dry protest. Vinaigrette tasted like a salty betrayal. The avocado was unripe and hard; nothing was right with the burrito. But more than the actual burrito, when I had finished the disaster burrito and wrapped it in foil, I made an even bigger mistake. I microwaved the cold burrito with the foil and caused a small electrical incident. It ended with me whispering apologies to my mom and hugging a black colored burned failure burrito. That day, I learned an important lesson: leave the greatness of a burrito only in the hands of Chipotle.
At the end of the day, there is only one thing that really matters. Simply put, you need something to hold onto. For me, that’s a rice-stuffed tortilla the size of my self-worth.
Because Chipotle doesn’t judge. It doesn’t ask if you’ve finished writing your AP Lang essay or cried in the bathroom between classes after yet another abysmal test performance. It just shows up: warm, overfilled, and dripping with low-effort joy.
So if loving Chipotle is a moral failure… arrest me. But at least slide a burrito through the bars. Double wrap it. Extra vinaigrette as per usual. And tell my AP Chem teacher I tried.
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