#131 - Girl Scouts and Greed

Girl Scouts and Greed

4/7/10 (#131)

I pause with the refrigerator door propped open, eyeing the visible portion of the colorful box. Its hastily torn end-flaps are tucked into each other, as if a 1/4" tab of cardboard is sufficient security to repel co-workers from helping themselves to a sample. Apparently aware that the vague existential state of the box (Is it really closed, or did the initial opening change the box forever?) might not be sufficient protection, the owner had deployed additional defenses, including the writing of their initials in black Sharpie on two sides of the package, and the strategic placement of a tub of cream cheese atop the box – not exactly disguised, but clearly an effort was made to make them less inviting.

Of course, the words "less inviting" are only used in the same sentence as Girl Scout Cookies if the phrase is, "Eating those nine boxes of Girl Scout Cookies this week has made my physique less inviting."

While many treats are tempting, the irresistibly of Girl Scout cookies is uniquely intense. Sure, there are a few lamas in Asia who have the willpower to resist the allure of the Do-si-do, but in my home, the time between the opening of the box and the deposit of the empty packaging into the recycling bin defies the physics of cookie consumption. That's why it's essential to place them in a hard-to-reach area, so that later (and by later, I mean in six minutes) when I've justified "finishing off the row" in the interest of symmetry and find myself kneeling on the kitchen counter to retrieve them from their "hiding" spot behind the breakfast cereal boxes, the effort to reach them makes me feel that I have earned them. Maybe even one from the next row, too.

But this isn't home, and in the office, different rules apply. Rule #1 in the corporate lunchroom: Do not eat other people's food. I have no trouble abiding when it comes to tuna sandwiches, leftover pizza, or yogurts flavored with weird fruits, but does the expectation of culinary privacy extend to Thin Mints? Of course it does – or at least, it should. But seeing that broken-seal box on the fridge shelf, the lawyer for the committee in my head begins looking for a loophole.

Technically, a loophole isn't necessary. The owner's initials were on the box, so I could easy visit their desk and ask permission. But they didn't scribble their initials on the box as an instruction for how to properly acquire a taste of the contents – the subtext of that all-caps identifier was, "These are mine. Your cookie train doesn't stop at this station."

Besides, one can't ask for a Girl Scout Cookie. They're sacred snacks. If someone has a big bowl of Tootsie Rolls on their desk, sure, ask away. Take three, it will barely show, and there's more where those came from, which is the Safeway just a few blocks from the office. Girl Scout cookies come around only once a year, delivered by pony-tailed pixies who are visible strictly during the cookie season. Plus, thanks to the elaborate structure of the packaging materials, they are in short supply the moment you open the box. (I'm talking about Samoas and Tag-Alongs, which come packed with a care usually reserved for diamond rings, the noisy plastic tray keeping the cookies a safe distance from each other as if science is unsure what will happen if they touch. Compare that to the Thin Mints, which come stuffed like poker chips in dual cellophane tubes. Why the caste system, Scouts? Why are the mints allowed to mingle while the coconuts get solitary confinement?) All the initials do is identify the exact person who will tell me they're sorry, but they "have plans" for the cookies. (Plans? Are you going to take them to an art museum? Bowling?)

There are a few folks in my office who would offer up a hearty "help yourself" if I asked for a cookie, and they'd sound plausibly sincere in doing so – but that's because those people are nice people and they wouldn't dream of calling me on the audacity of my inquiry, which means if I ate one of the cookies, it would taste like a mix of butter, sugar, and shame. No one enthusiastically shares Samoas, because it isn't sharing, it's giving away – and who gives away Girl Scout cookies? Someone might bring in a box with the intention of sharing it with their coworkers, but that's different than writing your name on the box and disguising them amid a refrigerator of packed lunches. Once the initials are on the box, those cookies are off limits.

Which would be fine, if they were hidden up behind some cereal boxes in the break room like you're supposed to do with Girl Scout Cookies. But here they are in plain view between leftover Thai food and a bag of string cheeses, the sweetness dripping from my memory and into my ambition. Surely they can spare one. (Well, three, actually, because I may as well finish off the row.)

The refrigerator door remains propped open. What was I looking for? Oh, that's right – a loophole.

©2010 wpreagan