Five Cookies

Today my first guest post went up on HerStory, a blog empowering women through storytelling. The theme at their site this week is about beauty standards, so I decided to write about the time I ate five cookies in one sitting and the range of emotions I felt with each one. Below is an excerpt.


Fingers curled around the cold edge of the kitchen sink; I hold on with the hope that I can outlast the temptation radiating from a flimsy grocery store cookie box. Inside are five, ordinary chocolate chip cookies that look more amazing than the ever-loving galaxy. I imagine my teeth sinking into the dough, dividing it cleanly into morsels of flavor washing over my tongue sending streaks of pleasure up into my brain. The way they kept wafting through my thoughts, God himself could have presented these miniature cakes baked of heady delight, with an oven mitt, apron, and platter. I shake the chocolate chips out of my mind and attempt to center myself in reality by focusing on the sink.

This is a fine porcelain sink.

I wonder how much it weighed with they installed it?

There is a funky smell coming from the drain.

Round, circular, orbital drain…

Remember those cookies?

They don’t stink…

Five Cookies1 (1)

My children are playing in the next room, but I know at any moment they could holler for me. With the sudden devious desperation of an addict looking for their next fix, I trade skittish glances between the cookies and my children, waiting impatiently for the moment to strike and release my grip on obedience.

This sink has never offered me anything other than work.

Sliding the cookie box in front of me, I ease open the plastic clam-shell, which might as well have been fitted with an audible alarm. I realize now why grocery stores pack cookies in these things: clearly to detract hoardery moms. I don’t want to attract the attention of my children. I have no intention of sharing the sweet bliss of being alone with something that is all mine. I tell myself I can have one or two because I’ve earned it, wrangling three kids all day by myself. I hide in the corner of the kitchen and eat my two cookies in secret, exhilarated that at any moment my children might catch me and I am in direct violation of what I “should” be doing.

I inhale the first cookie barely registering it before recklessly popping the indented tabs on the cookie box to grab the second one. After all, the initial goal of this whole operation was to find enjoyment in the flavor of a cookie. With the composure of a respectable woman, I promise to pay attention as I eat the second. The taste is sensational. As each tiny mound of chocolate slips into velvety ribbons in my mouth, I slap the cookie dust from my hands with concussive feigned satisfaction.

Two cookies.

Done.

Good.

Nobody ever died from eating two cookies, and the scale will probably not budge either.

Probably.


To read my essay Five Cookies in its entirety, please head over to HerStory.


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