Honesty is essential to any happy marriage. It’s the cornerstone of a healthy relationship, some would say. Unless we’re talking about ice cream.
A couple months ago, Bryan decided he wanted to cut sugar and alcohol from his diet. We had just returned home from France and had indulged in justsomuch wine and cheese. “Of course, babe,” I cheered. “Great idea! I support you 100 percent! In fact, I support you so much, I’ll commit to cutting sugar and wine along with you!”
I cringed as I heard the words slip from my mouth.
Of course I support Bryan’s healthier choices. But I also support eating ice cream every night. “You only live once!” I’ve been saying since before “YOLO” became a thing. I. Love. Ice cream. I can’t help it! It’s a behavior I inherited from my parents. My own genealogical burden to bear. This was going to be a long road.
A week went by, and then a month, and before you know it, I was tracking right along with Bryan. Weeks without ice cream? Unheard of! That is, until a couple weeks ago.
You see, we’ve been ordering our groceries from the local store online through a scheduled pick up service. Have you tried this? It’s glorious, especially for people like me who absolutely detest grocery shopping. You just go online, submit your shopping list, wait a few hours, pull your car into a designated parking space at the store at a designated time, and some high school-aged employee wheels your groceries out for you and loads them in your trunk! How did we live before this service existed, I ask you?
Well, the downfall began when I arrived home to realize one of my grocery bags had been swapped for someone else’s. You can imagine the joy that pulsed through my veins as I opened the very last grocery bag to find not the bagels I’d purchased, but someone’s carton of Edy’s Mississippi Mud Pie Ice Cream with a Fudge Swirl instead.
I stood there clutching that container like it was a newborn babe. Tears glistened in my eyes as I raised the ice cream toward the heavens and praised the Lord for his good gift. “Blessed be thy name!”
And then I hid it. I buried that Mississippi Mud Pie as deep as I could in our freezer drawer. What else could I do? “I won’t eat this,” I promised myself. “A commitment is a commitment.”
But I was no match for the ice cream’s call, reader. As soon as Bryan laid down in bed for the night, I was digging in that freezer like there was no tomorrow. “Be there in a minute!” I yelled to Bryan from the kitchen, my mouth overflowing with Mississippi Mud as I shoveled in spoonful after spoonful.
Over the last few days, I have mastered the art of eating my secret stash. Every after-work commitment, every long bathroom break, every time the lawn needs to be mowed, every time Bryan needs to do anything that doesn’t require my presence, you can find me face down in that ice cream carton.
Am I ashamed? Barely. Does Bryan need to know? Hell no. Don’t judge me. I make these choices for my own mental health.
Oh! Remind me next week to tell you about my secret wine.