This week was brutal. At 5 o’clock on Friday, I look the same in the mirror, but on the inside, I am merely just remnants of the person I was on Monday. Still, my day is not over as I grab a shopping cart and walk into my local grocery store. I am on the hunt for dinner, but my crushed ego and spirit pull me to the ice cream isle. I grab a pint of chocolate, peanut butter sundae and head to the checkout line.
As I put the container on the belt in preparation to pay, I find myself not being able to take my eyes off it, and I flirt by wiping a piece of ice that’s hanging off its handsome lid. I know it’s pretty forward of me, but I cannot resist the urge to have contact with this beauty. On the ride home, it’s quiet between us, but electric with anticipation. I park, walk inside as I softly cradle this sugary gem in my hand and grab the only accessory that will bring us closer, a spoon.
I dig in softly and try to play off the huge greedy spoonful I lift to my lips. The rush of sugar almost makes up for the beating that I took this week and before I know it I go in for scoopful number two, and then three. By bite seven, I feel my ass already getting bigger, but don’t care, and then I lose count of the dipping and the raising of the spoon, realizing a third of the container has already vanished.
I try to talk myself into slowing down, but the impulse and desire to be filled overrides all rationale. My pace gets quicker and more deliberate as I jam spoonful after another into my mouth. I try not to let my mind veer off to judge my actions and try to remain present, but mindless in this act of selfish gluttony. And just as quick as it started it was over, the pint expelled all of its contents into my stomach.
The feelings of guilt are almost immediate. I feel so ashamed and disgusted I went all the way on the first date. I was hoping to savor this pint, getting to know it slowly over the week to come. Understanding my behavior needs to be punished, I already start the mental trial that must convict, sentence, and punish me for my lack of control. I decide my sentence is 5 to 10, not years, but miles that I will force myself to run in the morning. I take the container, the empty carcass, and place it softly into the trash can. I take a moment to honor it for its service and place the lid over top.