by Jennifer Ryan
Saturday was a really bad day for me food-wise. I took my son to Chik-Fil-A for a play day. He and his little friend played on the playground, and I was able to maintain an adult conversation with the little boy’s mother. It was awesome. I returned home quite stuffed on chicken nuggets and French fries. I felt like my blue jeans were about two sizes too small due to all the salt I ate. I didn’t want to eat anything for dinner, but my husband returned home with crab legs. He basically threatened my life if I didn’t eat them. Crab legs, melted butter, asparagus, and steak. Yes, steak. I tried to eat sparingly, but I felt like I had gained about five pounds over the course of the day.
My son looks at me after his bath and says, “Momma, ice cream?” Here’s the thing. I’ve often said that ice cream is my kryptonite. I can refuse candy. I can refuse cake. I can’t refuse ice cream. The sweet, cold, dairy deliciousness. I can’t say no. I should have said no, but I couldn’t say no. We had little ice cream cones in the pantry. Yes, they are dipped in chocolate, but they’re small. One scoop of ice cream each is all we’d really be eating. Oh, the rationalizations we tell ourselves to justify these little splurges. I made one for my son, one for my husband, and one for myself. There’s a little bit of ice cream still left on the metal ice cream scoop. I can’t just rinse that into the sink. No, that’s sacrilege. I can’t waste good ice cream, so I have to lick the spoon.
Now, I’ve seen A Christmas Story many, many times. Who hasn’t? The movie is on every TV station for about a month straight. I’ve seen the kid lick the metal pole and what happens to him later. Yet no inner voice said, “Wait….this might not be a good idea.” Instead, I put the metal ice cream scoop to my lips, and I got stuck. My lips are stuck to it. Again, I don’t think. I just rip the scoop away. It’s just an ice cream scoop, after all. My lips stung for a second. No big deal. I was walking toward the couch with my ice cream cone. I took a bite, and then…blood. Blood in my ice cream. Blood everywhere. I was bleeding like a stuck pig, and that’s exactly how I felt. I felt like a stuck pig. My husband saw me with blood dripping down my face. There’s blood across my teeth. I looked like I’d lost a bar fight. Put yourself in my shoes for a minute. Your husband asks, “Honey what happened?” How do you explain this? To your VERY sarcastic husband? You say, “Well, I had to eat the last little bit of ice cream that was clinging to the ice cream scoop, and I somehow managed to rip the lips off my face.” The jokes practically write themselves.
This story is embarrassing. I could have kept it to myself, but I felt compelled to warn others. Don’t let this happen to you. Don’t become a statistic. The summer is long and full of terrors. Stay safe, my friends!