I’m sitting on the couch in a sweatshirt and sweatpants shivering. “It’s so cold in here,” I complain to my husband. “Can you turn off the air?”
Husband, sporting shorts and a tee shirt, plops himself down on the couch. “It’s summer.”
“Not in here it’s not.” I pout.
“If you’re so cold, maybe you shouldn’t be eating ice cream.”
Really? Logic? Is that what you’re going with?
I almost stop mid spoon to roll my eyes. Almost. Any retort must wait until the Edy’s slow-churned rocky road with chocolate sprinkles melts down my throat. Ohh. That’s good.
He knows that for me, ice cream isn’t just a nightly treat. My attachment – attachment sounds so much saner than addiction or obsession – goes much deeper than that.
When I’m sad or stressed, ice cream comforts me. When it’s time to celebrate, it’s a party in my bowl, with happy sprinkles, mini marshmallows and chocolate chips. Every day I find it emotionally soothing, a reward, a gift, but I’m also physically drawn to it.
I want it. I crave it. I must have it. I swap meals for it. I dream about it. I plan my day around it. I bribe my kids to go with me to score a pint. Watching vanilla and chocolate soft serve slowly swirl into a cone leaves me dreamy and relaxed. I carry cones in the side compartment of my car, and my own “mix” of toppings in my bag. I may or may not have picked a lost scoop up off the floor and eaten it. You have no proof.
What? Doesn’t everyone carry their own container of sprinkles?
I think it’s genetic. My brother is a great consumer of ice cream. When handed a bowl of titanic proportions, he can be seen raising a mischievous brow and saying with a sarcastic lilt, “This all you got?” My father, basically lives on ice cream and cheesecake, and just might be the most unhealthy person still living. My cousin, and soul sister, once told me that unless she has to sop up fallen ice cream and squeeze it into her mouth via sponge, she will eat it. And the late great, grand dame of the family, never concluded a meal without dramatically licking her lips before a bowl of chocolate ice cream.
Was there really any hope for me?
So when my husband rises from the couch to go to the kitchen for his own snack, I hand him my empty cup. “Could you get me a refill?” I ask. “And hand me that blanket.”
He rolls his eyes and pulls a sprinkle out of my hair.
Okay, I admit it. I have a little problem.
I’m cold. I’d like to lose five pounds. I’ve probably already had enough… For an elephant. But I can’t help myself. I love it.
Hello, I am Ice Scream Mama. And I am an Ice cream-aholic.
Please don’t send help.
love
