If you are a regular reader, you may recall an entry I posted a couple weeks ago called, “Ice Cream, Jesus, and Others.” It explained my recent unrest with my too-frequent ice cream indulgences. Should I be purchasing ice cream cones when there are plenty of other things I claim to prioritize more? The whole frozen dessert thing had simply surpassed moderation so I decided to exercise a little simplicity with a weeklong ice cream fast.
Well, after a week and a half without ice cream, I decided to treat myself to a cone last Thursday. It was a blazing hot day, I was hungry, and in desperate need of some time to myself. “I will get a cone and sit in the park!” I concluded after carefully considering whether this would be an appropriate occasion to reintegrate ice cream into my diet. The week and a half away from the dessert had made me more mindful of my cravings, and how unthinkingly I had indulged them. Lesson learned: I would be much more considerate about this indulgence, and more reverent of its pleasure.I took my salted caramel single scoop sugar cone to the park where I planned to sit and write until my salsa dance class began in an hour or so. I savored each lick of the cool treat as I watched dogs play in the fountain, children roll around in the grass, adoring couples cuddle on park benches. Then, with the last gooey bite, melted ice cream splattered onto the white cotton collar of my dress. Little beige ice cream stains all over me just in time for a night of salsa dancing…
If I didn’t know any better, I might call this a sign from God: a reminder, perhaps, about taking simplicity—and my delicious indulgences—seriously, considerately, cautiously. But that unfortunate bite was probably just a coincidence of my own making. A coincidence, like the fact that I haven’t eaten any ice cream since then…
