Please, it's time to chill.
Maybe your office has a treat table. If so, it’s probably located near an oft-traveled thoroughfare, like in the hallway between the busy conference room and the printers. It’s probably shielded from the boss’s office—as a rule, the boss rarely visits the treat table. The gravitational field of the treat table is so intense that people who have just entered the office for the first time can immediately identify it.
But quick as the eight-dollar croissant goes stale, sitting by the treat table got old. The catalyst of my discontent was not the baked goods themselves but the nervous ritual that accompanied them. It began to rankle me that the women in the office, in particular, rarely took a dessert from the table without narration. I’d become the backboard for their dietary anxieties, which in turn compounded my own dietary anxieties. “I’ve been sothis week,” one would say to me, quartering a doughnut.
That I can feel bad for ordering an arm-sized burrito and for ordering a lil salad is proof of the twisted logic inseminated in me by the patriarchy. [Throws bra onto bonfire, cackles as bra bursts into magnificent violet flames because of toxic materials used to cheaply approximate laciness.] In the same way, taking a second piece of birthday cake off the treat table is a choice fraught with meaning, and so is not taking any birthday cake.
I know that we can be chill about the treat table. I saw it, once. During my tenure as treat table csar there was one woman who, when treats were present, would stop at the table, say “Ooooo,” take the proffered treat, and bound away. She was a well-adjusted glitch in the matrix, and her chill was contagious: When other people witnessed her taking treats with fret-free delight, they also took treats with fret-free delight, and, just like that, the performative shame pattern is broken.
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