One of our nightly summertime beach rituals….one that is a tradition that goes way back into my childhood… is walking into the Town of Bethany and getting an ice cream cone. Sometimes we linger to listen to the band-du-nuit, sometimes we walk on the boardwalk and get eaten by mosquitos, sometimes we just sit and people watch. But whatever our whim may be, it starts with the cold deliciousness of frozen milk and sugar. What evening could go wrong when it starts with that combo?
We allowed Critter and Varmint to bring a friend this year. And we introduced them to this hallowed tradition.
They didn’t fight it.
But here is where things got interesting. Our friend Megan, who is a ballerina, among other things, and has no extra body fat to her name, got the largest, most impressive ice cream cone I have ever seen. It was on a King Sized waffle cone. It was several scoops. It was adorned with the most beautifully beachy colored sprinkles.
And it was as big as her head.
My Captain took a picture of her with it. You know, something we could show the ER docs when she went into hyperglycemic shock.
It was ginormous.
And we all laughed at the thought of her actually consuming the whole…or even most of it.
Well, she did. She dispatched that bad boy with alacrity. Even ate stray fallen sprinkles she found on her shirt later.
I was immediately filled with awe and great respect. My whole life I’ve been a ‘chow hound’, impressing all of my friends with my gastronomic feats. But here was this little 50 pound sweet girl who demolished that cone like weight watchers at an all you can eat Chinese Buffet. It verged on horrific, but never quite crossed that line.
And then I was tossed into a deep depression, the likes of which you’ve never seen. I had realized that she COULD eat like that and still be thin and spry and nimble. If I had eaten that, I would be asleep in ten minutes, AND gain five pounds in the process. I became jealous. Then filled with anger. Then I took a sharp left into Denial. Until I finally achieved acceptance.
I’m speaking to her again, finally. But I ain’t buyin her no mo ice cream. No sirree.
That’s for My Captain, and HIS hollow leg to do.