If you were a cookie, what kind of cookie would you be?

So I’ve been feeling a little guilty. It could have been the two ginormous double chocolate muffin I decided to have for lunch, or maybe because I tried getting rid of my overly affectionate cat by throwing an imaginary paper ball into the distance… and succeeded. But lately I feel like I’ve been a little bit shallow, like I’ve lost the ability to have any sensitive, deep or meaningful thought.

Instead of wondering what kind of back-story the girl in the movie star sunglasses at the back of the bus has, I now wonder where she got her shoes and why she doesn’t use more conditioner. People really should deep condition more.

The other day I picked CSI Miami over The National. Then, when I finally caught the news on CNN (I know, shameful), I wasn’t paying attention to what Condoleezza Rice was saying, instead I was looking at her new tailored Chanel suit as well as her unflattering haircut.

Speaking of hair, I got an upsetting haircut a few weeks ago. Looking back, it wasn’t particularly horrendous, it was just the exact opposite of what I had asked for. Still, I had to consciously hold back tears. I just never thought I was that kind of person. Apparently my hair does define me, and my hairdresser is the devil.

I decided to take action. I needed to be at one with the people, get in touch with my inner-altruist. I thought maybe some random acts of kindness and a couple PBS specials would make me feel better.

So I started by opening doors for people, letting cars merge in front of me in traffic and attempted not to shake my fist in anger at misbehaved drivers. Even though my efforts were largely ignored, I persevered. I let my mother judge my clothing and thanked her for her constructive criticism. I think I died a little in the inside.

I never used to be so desperate to help people, at least not while I was a waitress. Until a little while ago, I worked at a local restaurant for almost three years. There, I tended to people hand and foot. Not only by bringing them food and drink, but by listening to their issues (subscriptions actually). Since they insisted on treating me as a short term therapist, I decided to play along. I asked them background question to help better diagnose their problem, whether it was about their food being cold, or why they had been stood up. Until one day, when I guess I was being over zealous in my questioning, this sweet little old lady fought back. She was curt and told me, a little ungraciously, to mind my own business. Awesome. So now I’m not a waitress anymore, and I carry around a little bit of bitterness baggage. Hateful granny.

At any rate, being nice is hard work, so I’m scaling things down a bit. I’ll be keeping my good deeds to day to day politeness, courtesy and snack foods. I’m going to start keeping a supply of cookies in my purse.

That seems to have been my most successful endeavour. It makes people happy and it throws me into deep reflection on what kind of cookie the stranger in the back of the bus might be. Chocolate chip? Double fudge? Biscotti? Well I think I’m a step up from worrying about people’s deep conditioning habits.

And that’s the way it crumbles, cookie-wise.