You Are Not A Cookie.
You have been tormenting me. For weeks now. Every time I open the office fridge to put in a water bottle to chill, or to grab a cold water in the afternoon, or to find room for my salad and yogurt each morning, I have smelled you. Your intoxicating, blasted scent. You were aloof. I could not find you, hard as I searched for the source of that smell. A smell that reminded me of walking into a cupcake store–in heaven. Or a dreamy bakery by the beach–in a dream.
But there were no cupcakes in the fridge. No cake. No dead giveaway white cardboard box with a cutesy logo stamped on its front. No plastic container housing the remaining bites of someone’s boyfriend’s leftover birthday cake or someone else’s breakup indulgence.
Just a red Chinese-food container with yellow dragon on it. Several nondescript takeout containers in plastic bags. My salad. A few bottles of water and a Kombucha tea that has been half-finished for the past few weeks. I checked the tiny freezer: just ice.
Where, oh where, was that scent coming from? It drives me crazy each time I open the fridge. It drags me down to its level. I crouch in front of the tiny fridge, huddling in front of its dark allure, unable to stop myself. All because of that smell.
And then, today, fifteen minutes ago, I found it. I had gone into the kitchen, as usual, for a water break. As I searched fruitlessly for a chilled water bottle, my senses were arrested and overwhelmed once more by the aroma of pleasure and dessert. I stopped my search. I crouched. I squinted. I began to move items around.
Then I saw them: the culprits. They did not look particularly guilty in their knotted plastic Subway bag. They looked like Girl Scout cookies. Like Thin Mints.
But I, I lifted the bag to my nose and inhaled. There could be no denying it; these cookies were responsible for my sugar mania.
So I did what any self-respecting sugar freak would do. I counted the cookies. Then I tested the knot in the top of the bag. It budged. Carefully, oh so carefully, I untied the knot and reached inside. I lifted one cookie, palmed it, then retied the bag. No one entered the kitchen; no one observed my shame.
I casually returned to my desk. (Too casual! Was it too casual? Did I give myself away?)
I have never stolen food from officemates before. And I have never disclosed wrongdoing of such magnitude on the internet. But there is a first time for everything.
I took a bite and immediately all thoughts of regret flew out of my mind.
This. Was Not. A Cookie.
It could not be!
From all appearances, it looked like a rather stale Thin Mint Girl Scout cookie. A little bit chalky on the chocolate-dipped crust.
But it was not. Oh, no, it was not.
The first bite revealed a magical thing: flavors of almond and coconut, of chocolate and mint, all rolled into one cookie. The center of the cookie was filled with Oreo creme. What is this? It’s not a Thin Mint. It’s a combination of a Thin Mint, an Oreo, and a Samoa. It’s unbelievable.
I should never have taken that bite. I don’t know how I will restrain myself from future thievery.
I really don’t.