I am awash in Girl Scout Cookies.
They are everywhere. Boxes of them, all neatly crated up and calling out to me with their siren sugary voices, urging me to forget about the people who actually ordered them, forget about dividing them up into bags so they can be delivered, and go ahead and eat them now. For breakfast.
Must. Resist. Temptation.
You would think I'd be better at this. It happens every year, after all. The girls go out and about the neighborhood with me in the background, hitting up the neighbors for some fundraising. Kim drops off the order forms in strategic locations around Home Campus for people to sign up. Orders roll in. And my office turns into a place that could induce diabetes at a distance of a hundred paces.
To make that even better, sometime later this week there will be more orders coming in – the “second chance” order that I turned in last night when the girls and I went down to pick up the first chance order.
Cruelty, thy name is Girl Scouts.
I will be good. I will not rip open a box of Thin Mints and eat an entire sleeve of cookies in one breath, as they were clearly meant by Nature and Nature's God to be eaten. I will not snarf up a box of Peanut Butter Patties despite their uncanny resemblance to the Tastykakes of my youth. I will not open up a package of that new kind – the one with the chocolate, the one that comes in a tube rather than a box – just to see what it is like.
Okay, maybe just one.