I’m spearheading the resistance effort against homemade baked goods in the office.
Remember when I thought someone else in the office was also fighting the good fight? Well someone ELSE is not. Someone else has gone to the dark side. The dark, freshly baked, spiked with brown sugar and raisins, side. There were two Ziplocks full of homemade cookies, laying on the counter in the office kitchen. They were staring blankly up at all innocent co-workers merely happening into the kitchen to refrigerate lunches and pour necessary first cups of coffee.
That’s the first thing – there was pre-coffee contact.
I was faced with the decision — to cookie or not to cookie — BEFORE coming into my rightly caffeinated state of mind. How in this world am I supposed to rationally weigh the elation of cookie eating against the agony of extra P90X before being properly hooked up to the java mainline? This is a time of day when I can barely tie my shoes, which explains why I don’t lace up my running shoes before noon. I’m not equipped to ascertain the warm chewy truth that this cookie packs more calories than my lunches of packing peanuts and matchbooks with a side of new and improved water-flavored Jell-O* pack in three days. (* meal contents described based on taste, and not actual ingredients).
The second thing is this – they weren’t just big ol’ dumb obviously off-limits cookies. (Ahem, Starbucks)
They were small-ish and deceptively insignificant looking. You know, like what could one little cookie hurt? They were just perfectly sized for two sweet and satisfying bites. Just big enough for a dunked-bite and a dry-bite. Smaller, but still porous enough, the way real homemade cookies always are, to soak up the perfect amount of hot coffee without utterly dissolving into a nasty quagmire inside your mug. They were just so moderately measured to fit together with a clutched fist inside the rim of a coffee mug, a tiny Achilles dunked head-first, all but for one tiny spot left dry for pinching.
And finally this – there were thousands of them.
It’s not so much that, there being thousands of cookies, I wanted to eat every last one, although that is a fact I cannot refute. It’s really more the enabling element that cookies-in-numbers affords. Like, who would notice just one cookie missing from this Million Cookie March? Really, out of 1,000,000 cookies, one may slip away undetected. And so too, out of 999,999, may one tiny cookie slip unnoticed. And therein lies the problem. Not one office mate could possibly be wise to the cookie-filching indiscretion of an openly dieting co-worker when the homemade cookies attack en masse.
So I ate one.
Yeah, I did it. And it was good, and I don’t feel guilty. With only hurculean effort, I kept it to just one in hopes that by the time the alarm sounds on the afternoon coffee pot, someone else will have given in to the angry demands of the tiny cookies. Someone else can be guiltily stashing half-eaten cookies in their drawer of spare envelopes spending all afternoon convincing themselves that twelve half eaten cookies don’t amount to six actual cookies because science has unequivocally proven that the first bite costs less.
After all, I’m on a diet.