View from the North 40: Where greed can take you

I recently recognized the fact that I’ve been working my way through the five stages of greed.

All I can say is that not all of life’s progress is in a positive direction.

I’d like to blame my office’s personal benefactor, the cookie lady, who is, after all, a sweet little old cookie pusher. So I do.

She has grandma-style old-fashioned manners, which mean she has her own wiliness. It’s like that social media challenge “How do you tell me (something), without actually telling me the (something).”

For example, you might pose the question, “How do you tell me it’s really cold outside, without telling me it’s really cold outside?” And I could post a photo of a window almost completely frosted over, and through the one small, clear part you can see the face of a man, with an iced-over beard, who’s angrily screaming for the photographer to put the camera down and let him into the house.

How do I know the cookie lady has the old-fashioned manners of my grandmas? She can produce a couple dozen homemade, bite-sized cookies at a moment’s notice. The cookies come from the freezer — you know she always has some on hand in case someone stops by. She brings cookies to the office once a week, and she can work her way past a polite “No” like a ninja.

While you are saying, “Oh, that’s sweet, but no, you don’t have to do this. We’re just doing our job. You don’t have to. We really can’t,” she’s smiling, saying lots of nice things in counterpoint and laughing warmly. Then, somehow, at the end of the exchange you — a quick-witted adult, suddenly outmaneuvered by a little old lady — are standing there with a paper plate of half-thawed cookies with the recipe taped to the Saran Wrap, and you’re saying dazedly, “Thank you. You really shouldn’t have,” as she makes her way out the door.

“Um, just this once,” you tell the now-closed door.

And thus begins the first stage of greed: Denial.

We denied we wanted or needed the cookies, which was true enough. We denied ourselves the eating of them, for an awkward moment anyway. We even felt guilty — a sort of moral denial.

And this went on once a week for quite a while. Then we arrived at the second stage of greed: Reluctance.

Outmaneuvered by a sweet old-fashioned lady determined to get her way, we reluctantly accepted the weekly cookies with a gracious thank-you, and ate them, feeling appreciated and happy with our bounty.

That led quickly to Acceptance, the third level of greed, and me walking around the office, two-fisted-eating a couple cookies while announcing to the different departments that cookies were available in the break room. Each week.

Then one week I knew I reached the fourth level of greed — Self-Indulgence — because I caught myself saying, “Gahhh, I’m so huuungry. Is it cookie lady day? Please be cookie lady day.”

All of a sudden the sweet little old grandma went from ninja to superhero expected to swoop in and save me? How has my life come to this? I mean, if you crunch the numbers, technically I could be a grandma. I could be baking my own bite-sized cookies, if I were that person, and bringing them to work, y’know, if I could remember to do that.

Then, I’m all, “Oh, shut the yelp up, self. There she is with the cookies, cookies, cookieeees!”

And I’m saved. My greedy impulse rewarded.

I full-on just gobbled two cookies down before I announced to anyone that cookies were on the premises.

It’s gotten worse.

Now, I have hit the fifth level of greed: Voracity.

It’s not just me elbowing people out of the way to get to the cookies first. I know who in the office likes and dislikes different types of cookies. Some people don’t like raisins. Some people don’t like the experimental cookies with banana, applesauce or zucchini. Some people, wrong-headed weird people, don’t like chocolate. For a while we had someone allergic to nutmeg.

The cookie lady’s recipes are different every week so eventually there’s something for everybody.

But there’s always something for me. Always. I’m allergic to nothing. I like almost anything. The cookie lady would literally have to make something like anchovy and Brussels sprout cookies for me to sound a “nope.”

Occasionally, I know certain cookies will be leftover the next morning, and I’m, all, “Yes!! Cookies for dessert after breakfast tomorrow. These are all mine. I love you, cookie lady.”

All that said — as often happens — writing this column has given me a moment to reflect on my topic. It occurred to me that, really, I just made up this whole five levels of greed thing, so is there a lower level to which I could stoop?

And I believe the answer is yes, yes there is.

Theft.

Theft would be lower.

Nothing elaborate, just meeting her in the parking lot, informing her that the office is on lockdown for a dihydrogen monoxide spill that “I just barely managed to escape from.”

“Everybody will recover, so I’ll take the cookies home and bring them back with me in the morning.”

In. My. Belly.

——

Don’t worry. I think that in time I can imagine a lower level to which I could stoop at http://www.facebook.com/viewfromthenorth40 .