When I was in my 20s and living with a friend, I’d leave cookies in our kitchen, and within a couple of days, the box was empty. For the few years we lived together, I assumed my roommate was sharing in the consumption. It wasn’t until I moved into my own apartment and chronicled the expediency with which I devoured a box of cookies that I understood she had never placed her hand in my “cookie jar.”
Back then, I questioned her about my revelation, and she confirmed her distaste for cookies. Maybe I always knew this, but, for years, I validated my cookie binge by imagining she was helping me finish a box (or two).
This sweet epiphany shaped my perception of the world. Afterward, I told friends they had to spend time living on their own to figure out who was eating the metaphorical cookies in their lives. Living on your own is an insightful look into who you really are. There’s nobody there for you to resent because they left dirty dishes in the sink or to blame for making you stay up too late binge-watching “Columbo” episodes from the ’70s.
Conversely, you can’t give someone credit for eating the snack food you unintentionally finished in a day or seriously believe the apartment is clean because you’re the tidy one. In short, it unmasks you.
