Several weeks ago, Andrew idly suggested he make a batch of his delicious chocolate chip cookies. It didn’t happen. The next day, I asked if he’d like to make cookies; again, it didn’t happen. Day after day for the rest of that week, he’d arrive home from work and I’d ask, my eyes filled with hope, if today was the day for cookies. And yet no cookies were made.
Shrewdly, I revised my strategy. “I hope you’re not planning to make cookies tonight,” I said loudly one day. In the days that followed, I intensified the strategy. “The last thing I want you to do tonight is make those cookies,” I’d say. If Andrew would begin a sentence with, “You know what we should do?” I’d sigh in aggravation, roll my eyes, and say, “You better not say ‘bake cookies.’ I hate cookies.”
This has continued for nearly a month.
Last night, after watching some CNN and pulling out our hair for a while, Andrew said, “Tonight’s the night. I’m making cookies. Should I bake them tonight or let the dough rest till tomorrow?”
“Whatever,” I scoffed. “I’m not going to eat them either way.”
“I’m not falling for your Jedi mind tricks,” he said. This is how he simplifies my complex reverse psychology method, which I think I must have learned during college in my very valuable, very difficult, Psychology courses. (Non-college acquaintances of mind might miss the sarcasm in that statement, but trust me, it’s there.)
Andrew did indeed make the cookies last night, baking one tray and saving the rest of the dough for today. They were delicious. If you like cookies, I mean. I hope he doesn’t try to make another fruit crisp anytime soon. (Andrew, are you reading this?) I hate those. Maybe even more than I hate cookies.