My Achilles Heel

Mythology and superhero adventures are the allegorical foundations of my life. In particular, I like the myth of Achilles because, while he was all coated in a magical protective layer of awesome, he was still vulnerable. Achilles was only durable, not immortal; even lesser immortals can die if we follow Twilight and our other legendary monster stories. We all possess some version of an Achilles heel, a fatal flaw or weakness in our character. I have no superpower, I’m not imbued with any special characteristics, and I clearly haven’t been bitten by a vampire, so it would stand to reason that my Achilles heel would be a little less majestic. I humbly submit to you that my Achilles heel is Girl Scout cookies.

Some people spring clean to rid themselves of the year’s miscellany. I clean to make room for the cookies. My kitchen pantry is never as organized as it is when I have cleared the path for the Thin Mints and Trefoils. Occasionally, I will invite a Do-si-do or Tagalong into the house, but not often enough that it would ever take the place of the telltale green and blue boxes lining the cookie shelf in happy seduction.

I scoff at the notion of the serving size. The Trefoil is arguably the most versatile of the cookies because of its light and airy goodness, but is anyone able to stop at five? Five? That’s not a serving. I measure my serving sizes in sleeves. One sleeve is a serving. More than that and I get a tummy ache; less than that and I am not saturated with the joy of all that is a Trefoil.

Thin Mints share their place of glory and destruction in my heart and temporarily on my waistline. Normally I’m not a big chocolate mint type of gal. My husband loves nothing more than chocolate mint chip ice cream; I can pass. Chocolate mint syrup? No thanks. Chocolate mint brownies? I might try one, but only because I’m trying to be polite. I will, however, cheerfully push you aside if you think you’re taking the Thin Mints out of the pantry without express approval in writing that you may have a couple.

What is happening here? Am I possessed of Girl Scout demons? The draw, I believe, is their limited availability. I have tried repeatedly to convince myself that they are not any more special than any other cookie available. I have tried and failed terrifically. I don’t care what logic dictates, I’m listening to my id, my essence, my cookie lust. Maybe it’s the memories they evoke. I remember exchanging cookies with my cousin in the best version of a barter economy I have experienced before or since. Here, I’ll give you two peanut butter yummies and in exchange you’ll let me wear your favorite sweater. No problem.

The Girl Scouts, a wonderful organization, have excellent marketing management strategies at their disposal. Limited exposure gives one an act-now/suffer the tummy ache later mentality that’s highly successful if I’m any indication. I have never participated in a blind taste test, so I couldn’t really judge whether they are tastier to my palate or whether, like some people on Halloween, Spring is simply my cookie frenzy time of the year.

I used to think my weakness was chocolate, but I have been known to say, “No thanks” if I’m not in the mood for a sweet morsel. The way to my heart is evidently stamped with the Girl Scout seal of approval. What this suggests in terms of the longevity of my lifespan or my ability to leap tall building in a single bound is, well, absolutely nothing. I just think it’s a good idea to look at whatever our Achilles heel(s) may be and acknowledge them. Hi Girl Scout cookies. I’ve been waiting for you.