Resisting Temptation and Girl Scouts

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I am declaring war on Girl Scouts and those diabolical boxes of temptation they are peddling to vulnerable people like me.

I’ve made public my desire to fast during the 40 days of Lent, and I added weekends to that pledge, making my sacrifice about 45 days long. I could have chosen soda pop or chocolate or meat to give up as a small means of identifying with the suffering Jesus Christ endured for us.

But, no. I chose sweets, desserts, sugary things that I dream about and crave. One of those forbidden fruits is Girl Scout cookies. I gave them up to help me become a more committed Christian.

So, what do I see everywhere I go? Is it bag salads? What about baked tilapia or diet green tea?

Of course not. I see cute little Girl Scouts smiling sweetly as they attempt to pull me off the wagon.

There is no place to hide, no safe place for me to go to elude their eyes.

I was shopping at Big Lots and there they were seemingly loaded down with those heavenly shortbread cookies that almost melt in one’s mouth, bringing more joy to the esophagus than it has ever experienced before.

A weak moment found me circling their table before sanity was restored.

They’ve been at grocery stores, in churches and at my work. My only refuge was my home where I had promised to inflict bodily harm to any family member who brought home anything resembling a cookie.

So, imagine my dismay when I answered my doorbell last night only to find two pretty little girls, standing in the cold, asking me to purchase just one little ol’ box.

I’m not really good at turning down cute faces on my doorstep. I almost surrendered.

But just as I was about to cave, I got a brilliant idea.

I told the girls to wait a minute, fought off two dogs who were barking and trying to protect me from them and called my husband to the door. Even if he bought some cookies, they would disappear with him to the basement, the man cave, and I would once again be safe.

My husband bought the cookies, but he left them in the kitchen right next to the TV room where I was sitting. “If I want one,” he said, “I’ll have to come up here to get it.”

Then he laughed, sounding eerily like one of those devils in cartoons.

I am happy to report that the cookies are still there, unopened, both boxes. And my husband has only a couple of bumps and bruises.

Twenty days down, 25 more to go.

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