So I have this coworker. Her office is next to mine, which is across the hall from the staff kitchen.
Which is where I stash my treats when I bake something for the office.
For either of us to get anywhere in the building, we have to walk by the corner of the counter where I put the treats I made, and am depending on my coworkers to eat up so I don’t gain 300 pounds. A day.
Since I am giving away the treats, it’s easy enough for me to deny grabbing one or two, or 10, throughout the course of the day. And chances are good that I spent the previous evening sampling one or two, or 10, for quality control purposes.
I mean, I work with these people Monday-Friday. I can’t get a reputation for brining in substandard goodies, now can I?
So while, for me, the proximity to the kitchen, and my treats, is no big deal, I’ve slowly come to realize something about my coworker.
I’ve become her food drug dealer. Continue reading