Eat the Ice Cream
Life at the Hearth
by Sonia Vale
Everyone else had ice cream.
I did not.
This was intentional.
We were sitting in one of those places that’s difficult to describe. Not quite a mall. Not quite a food hall. There was a large bar in the middle, with little food vendors gathered around it, including one that sold homemade ice cream in flavors that made you stop and read the sign twice.
One of them had olives in it.
I don’t remember what else was in there with the olives, because honestly, once I saw olives, I stopped asking questions.
Our friend had already ordered hers. My husband had his. She offered me a taste of hers—something involving graham crackers—and I tried it.
It tasted exactly like graham crackers.
Too exactly, as far as I was concerned.
I like graham crackers. I just wasn’t entirely sure that was where I wanted my graham crackers to be.
Still, I wasn’t getting ice cream.
I hadn’t exercised much that week. I’d exercised over the weekend, maybe Monday, but the last couple of days hadn’t gone according to plan. And somewhere in my head, those things had become connected.
Not enough exercise.
No ice cream.
So I sat there while they ate theirs.
This lasted a few minutes.
Then I looked at the ice cream again.
Oh, shucks.
Forget it.
I’m getting some ice cream.
I went back to the counter and ordered two scoops.
One was blueberry cream. The other was some kind of pecan—not butter pecan, something else—and both were delicious. But that blueberry cream?
Oh, my goodness.
Even the color was beautiful. Soft and rich and full of blueberries. I ate with my eyes before I ever lifted the spoon.
And then I tasted it.
Creamy. Cold. Sweet.
Worth it.
I ate the whole thing.
And something rather lovely happened afterward.
Nothing.
I didn’t feel guilty.
I didn’t start calculating how long I’d need to exercise the next morning. I didn’t promise myself a salad for dinner. I didn’t sit there wishing I’d demonstrated a little more discipline. I was simply glad I’d gotten the ice cream.
Apparently, I was doing a little more of that this week.
One afternoon I went outside with my dog. Usually there’s a rhythm to our time in the yard. We play for a while. I throw his ball. He runs. Eventually I remember whatever else I’m supposed to be doing, and we go inside.
This time I took off my shoes.
I turned on the hose to water the plants, which my dog considers an invitation to battle. He chased the water. I let it run over my bare feet. He ran through it and came back for more.
I had things to do.
We stayed outside anyway.
And yesterday, after my Saturday meeting, I was tired.
It was only around three-thirty in the afternoon. Too early, according to some completely imaginary authority, to be finished with the day.
I took a shower.
Then I thought I might take a nap.
The nap had other plans.
I woke up a couple of times and considered getting up. There was still evening left. Surely I should do something with it.
But I was tired.
So eventually I stopped arguing with myself and went back to sleep.
I’ve been thinking about those little moments.
I like plans. I like knowing what needs to be done. There is comfort in structure, and sometimes there is freedom in it too.
But perhaps the point of making a plan isn’t to become trapped inside it.
Sometimes the afternoon says, Take off your shoes.
Sometimes your body says, That’s enough for today.
And sometimes there is a beautiful scoop of blueberry cream ice cream sitting on the other side of a decision you made before you knew how much you wanted it.
Plans are useful.
But life is happening while we’re making them.
And every now and then, I think it’s perfectly all right to look at the plan and say:
Oh, shucks.
Forget it.
Eat the ice cream.
