Spring Break
Guilt and the secret cookie ingredient
Mary Petrides
Issue date: 1/31/08 Section: Opinion
Twice a week when my brother is out of town, I drive his less-than-perfect vehicle to work in Jonesville. The brakes usually work, but the windshield is cracked and, as I discovered one Thursday, the gas gauge lies.
I coasted into the parking lot of Stadium Roller Skating on M-99, where the car died. I put it in park, removed the key, and panicked.
The skating rink was closed, but an employee unlocked the door and let me wait inside.
None of my freshman friends have cars, so I called my brother's friend Myles Sandrian. He let me interrupt whatever it was he was doing, dug out a gas can, bought fuel, drove over to the roller skating rink, filled the tank, and gave his Myles Sandrian "Hooray!" when the car started. I only missed a half hour of work.
The next Saturday I made cookies for him.
"You didn't have to make cookies," he said.
"You didn't have to drive out to Jonesville," I said.
"It wasn't a big deal," he said.
"Then the cookies weren't a big deal," I said.
They weren't a big deal: "thank you" is an almost automatic response. But cookies baked with gratitude are sweeter than those baked with guilt. I felt guilty anyway, and I wondered: why am I so reluctant to be grateful?
Maybe because I almost put gas in the car the last five times I drove to Jonesville. Maybe because I'm stingy and didn't want to spend $3.24 per gallon. Maybe because I would have grumbled if someone asked me to drive out to Jonesville.
I felt guilty because I had been the recipient of a favor I probably wouldn't do for someone else.
That guilty feeling reflects my own character. Maybe I wouldn't feel so bad asking for help if I were more willing to give it.
Maybe I wouldn't feel so bad asking for help if I accepted that I'm never going to be completely independent.
I like to think of myself as independent. I can hold a fork properly. I can hold a job. I can hold a gas pump.
But I still need other people. Any relationship, whether it be familial or friendly, must include both give and take. Sometimes the take is the hardest part. I can hold my temper. I can hold my cell phone. I can hold the panic from my voice.
I can be grateful because I saw a gem of kindness in this often unkind world instead of feeling guilty because I cajoled that kindness.
And next time I bake cookies, I can bake them with gratitude instead of guilt.
I coasted into the parking lot of Stadium Roller Skating on M-99, where the car died. I put it in park, removed the key, and panicked.
The skating rink was closed, but an employee unlocked the door and let me wait inside.
None of my freshman friends have cars, so I called my brother's friend Myles Sandrian. He let me interrupt whatever it was he was doing, dug out a gas can, bought fuel, drove over to the roller skating rink, filled the tank, and gave his Myles Sandrian "Hooray!" when the car started. I only missed a half hour of work.
The next Saturday I made cookies for him.
"You didn't have to make cookies," he said.
"You didn't have to drive out to Jonesville," I said.
"It wasn't a big deal," he said.
"Then the cookies weren't a big deal," I said.
They weren't a big deal: "thank you" is an almost automatic response. But cookies baked with gratitude are sweeter than those baked with guilt. I felt guilty anyway, and I wondered: why am I so reluctant to be grateful?
Maybe because I almost put gas in the car the last five times I drove to Jonesville. Maybe because I'm stingy and didn't want to spend $3.24 per gallon. Maybe because I would have grumbled if someone asked me to drive out to Jonesville.
I felt guilty because I had been the recipient of a favor I probably wouldn't do for someone else.
That guilty feeling reflects my own character. Maybe I wouldn't feel so bad asking for help if I were more willing to give it.
Maybe I wouldn't feel so bad asking for help if I accepted that I'm never going to be completely independent.
I like to think of myself as independent. I can hold a fork properly. I can hold a job. I can hold a gas pump.
But I still need other people. Any relationship, whether it be familial or friendly, must include both give and take. Sometimes the take is the hardest part. I can hold my temper. I can hold my cell phone. I can hold the panic from my voice.
I can be grateful because I saw a gem of kindness in this often unkind world instead of feeling guilty because I cajoled that kindness.
And next time I bake cookies, I can bake them with gratitude instead of guilt.
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