high-bar baking

There was no earthly reason I was required to make cookies. I hadn’t even volunteered. I’d signed myself up in my head. I was originally going to just bring the sugar cookies I had in my freezer, but I’d forgotten about my regularly scheduled (and again, totally optional and fake!) kickball cookies commitment. So now I’m down half my sugar cookies. 

And the floor ping pong tournament is happening at work. And I’m out late dancing. What do I do when I get home? Stay up and make cookies. Wildly irresponsible? Ok, it was a 75 minutes reduction of sleep and a couple extra dishes — “wildly” is probably out of bounds. But certainly it was silly. 

Why did I feel the need to do that? I even repeated to myself what I’d heard earlier that week as work advice: “The demands we place on ourselves are what we can control.” Why was that a demand I chose to place on myself, and to continue to place on myself even when I knowingly gave myself the option of bowing out? 

Is it the admiration? One more brick in the slow-growing wall of my fame? Do I want that badly to purchase affection? 

Is it the flip side — do I live in fear that if I stop, no one will want me around anymore? An interesting set of questions. Perhaps you can tell I binged all the Dark Knight movies this weekend. What is my legacy? What darkness am I overcoming? Will I make it out of Gotham in one piece? 

Pointless sidebar, I do love the way the Bat Bike spins its tires sideways in skids but keeps the passenger upright the whole time. I just think that’s so cool. 

To be Christopher Nolan. What an aspiration. 

Make cookies if you want to. They’re your expectations. You’re allowed to set them. Perhaps figure out why, though. 

I made Un-Chocolate Chip Cookies, by the way. I suppose someone might care about that.