I baked cookies.
This may not seem like much to those who don't know me.
This may seem par for the course to those who do.
For those who do not know me, the next bit of information to this story will probably seem like no big deal.
To those of you who do know me, you'll understand that this next bit of information was the worst experience of my weekend.
The intended recipient of the cookies....did not want them.
Big deal. Right? Someone didn't want the cookies.
It was foolhardy to bake them anyway. The chances of delivering these cookies in person was a long shot. I knew that when I started. I was hopeful, optimistic, planning for the possibility. And it did not come to pass.
There was not any significant amount of disappointment. I understand why a personal delivery was not an option.
So, I did what I always do. I decided to send a care package. All I needed was an address.
Which was not forthcoming.
I'm not really sure I believe the reason given. History has taught me to doubt such responses. I want to trust, to believe, to accept that it really is about not wanting stale cookies. I really, really do.
But I don't.
I fear that the exchange of addresses at this point in a new friendship is simply too personal.
I feel rejected.
And do you know why?
Because a cookie, in my world, is never just a cookie.
A cookie, in my world, is an act of philea (φιλíα).
This comes, I am sure, as no surprise to those who know me.
The fact is, the person for whom I baked cookies, is a new friend. We don't know one another all that well. And so, this person is blissfully unaware that a cookie is never just a cookie, that a cookie is an act of philea, that rejecting my coookie is a fundamental rejection of an offering of myself.
I know that's probably weird to most of my readers. I know that this will not make sense to anyone who does not know me really, really well. I admit that I'm something of an odd duck.
Cookies = Philea? Seriously?
Yep. They sure do.
And after a long, difficult day that included conversation with a family member who is mentally ill--always a frustrating experience--and another family member rejecting the proper timing of a meal I had prepared as an act of storge (στοργή).... Well, having my cookies rejected hit deep.
So, I curled up in bed, and I cried myself to sleep.
And try though I migh to tell myself, "It's just a cookie," it really isn't.
McG 1, I miss you. You ALWAYS ate my cookies.