Twice a year, I treat myself to a guilt-free trip to the Haagen Dasz store and buy a large cup of my favorite coffee-chip ice cream. The first time is a gift consumed within a week or two of my birthday and the other is to acknowledge the end of another hot summer.
I let the cold scoops soften before sliding the plastic spoon around the sides of the cup to admire the soft mocha. With great nonchalance, I slip it into my mouth and give myself over to the mysterious depths of bittersweet chocolate against the wisdom of fine coffee. The sweet smoothness lingers. I close my eyes. This is not the best table etiquette, which is why I prefer to be alone. Every calorie must be savored. I do not want to be distracted by shallow conversation but be present in the moment, a kind of ice cream meditation.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy the occasional ice cream cone or Dairy Queen during the rest of the year but there are none better than this, probably because it has the highest percentage of butterfat on the planet. Which means it is bad for my arteries and heart.
Well, I have no plans on living forever anyway.
The only way for me to enjoy this is to decide ahead of time that it will be guilt-free. Because of my self-imposed limitations to twice-a-year, I let myself get away with it. And every time, my inner child, long neglected, suddenly jumps down from her lonely fence post and comes running.
I recommend a dose of your favorite ice cream for temporary relief of stress, heartache, depression, sorrow, PIAs, endless worries and concerns. It is the first choice of treatment for the nagging pestering of the occasional sweet tooth. I have self-medicated for all these conditions and can report 100% successful outcomes. It may add a pound here or there, but scores high on My Personal Joy index.