Beware the Adorable Demons Who Come To Your Door

My lack of willpower led me down a dark path

The doorbell rings. I jump up, annoyed. Who is coming to the door without warning? I do my best creepy peep to find out, forgetting I have glass panels on each side of my front door.

Two adorable small children dressed in matching brown dresses stand before me.

Girl Scouts. Shit.

I open the door because I am not Larry David.

“Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?” they ask beaming, with adorable smiles plastered to their faces and dimples to top it off.

I immediately get Shining vibes, but engage anyway, because they are so darn cute. Be strong. You know what happened last time. Walk away. Tell them no, and shut the door. It’s not that hard.

“Would I ever?!” I yell, nearly deafening them.

“Great, how many boxes would you like?” they ask in perfect unison. They’ve done this before.

“I’ll take three of each kind!” I am so weak.

“Oh wow thank you so much! That will be $180!” they say, still smiling ear-to-ear. Their mother thanks me profusely.

I swallow the vomit that’s now pooling in my throat and whip out my phone to Venmo their mom.

My God, they’ve added so many new cookies. Cookies I’ve never heard of before. Gone are the simple days of Samoas, Tagalongs and Thin Mints — all of which have been renamed probably because the cookies were racist at one point.

The kids start hauling the absurd amount of cookies to my front door and vanish just as quickly as they appeared, like tiny, evil sorceresses.

I look down at the mountain of colorful boxes blocking my doorway. I kick open the door and start to shove the cookies inside like a maniac trying to hide a body.

My husband peers around the corner from his office.

“What the? Oh no, not again,” he moans.

I hold out my hand signaling that there is no need to say anything. I know I am a weak, pathetic human with zero willpower when it comes to cute children selling sugary treats. He shakes his head and turns back to his work or Instagram.

My children catch a whiff and run downstairs like gremlins after midnight. “Oh my God, mom! Are those all for us?” they shout.

“Unless there’s a black market for second-hand Girl Scout cookies, yes, unfortunately these are all for us.”

They tear into each flavor and stake their claim on their favorites. I tell myself I will not eat any. I don’t need to eat these highly processed sugar bombs. I am an adult and I can eat a respectable snack like a kale chip, while I cry.

Girl scout cookies aren’t even that good. It’s not that ooey, gooey cookie from your local bakery or even your questionable, underbaked homemade chocolate chip cookies — but there is something about them I cannot resist. My guess is they’re laced with cocaine.

I stare at the three boxes of Thin Mints. Okay, just one I say. I take a bite of the delightfully crispy little wafer and am transported back to the carefree days before calories found their way to my inner thighs. I must have passed out because five minutes later there was an empty box of Thin Mints next to me.

Damnit.

I justify the indulgence by the fact that I walk my dog twice a day — but then I remember that ambling along with a fluffy companion who stops to sniff the ground every three minutes, while I text my friends and google things like does Spanx make pajamas — doesn’t really qualify as exercise.

I text my friends asking if they want free Girl Scout cookies. They all tell me to fuck off because they have fallen prey to the same cookie-hawking scam. Probably by the same two miscreants.

I google things to do with unopened boxes of cookies and conclude I am too lazy to drop t

hem off anywhere or ship them in a box. So there they sit in a colorful, geometric mountain.

I flop down on my couch and grovel in my feebleness. The doorbell rings again. I pop up like a prairie dog and cautiously approach the door. I peek out — and panic.

A different set of equally adorable Girl Scouts are standing on my doorstep. I back away as if a pack of rabid coyotes lurks on the other side. My kids come running towards the door asking who it is.

I tell them it’s no one, but it’s no use. They open the door. The new Girl Scouts stand before me and present me with their cookie-peddling spiel.

Not this time little demons!

I tell them I have something burning in the oven and shut the door on their sweet faces and watch as their expressions change from feverish optimism to bitter defeat in two seconds. Their mother shakes her head and shoots me a cutting look.

I tell myself I am teaching them a valuable life lesson. They will grow stronger because of people like me, callously slamming doors on their sweet little faces. I tell myself they will thank me one day — and my pantry, wallet and thighs cannot handle one more box.

Then I remember I could have donated a few boxes to the military, solving two things at once — helping the sweet little Girl Scouts reach their aggressive sales goal, and giving a temporary boost to some exhausted, homesick soldiers.

Then it occurs to me, maybe I am Larry David after all.