I confess. Yesterday, I snuck in a sinful pleasure. And as usual, I got caught.
It all started when I pulled into Sonic Drive-In to fetch lunch for Stephen. I’d already had lunch with a friend. Searching the menu and trying to decide whether to get him a cheeseburger, chicken wrap or footlong cheese coney, my gaze fixed upon “vanilla ice cream cone.” Like a neon sign, it flashed in front of me, refusing to be ignored.
My mouth watered, anticipating creamy coolness on my tongue. Temptation refused to be ignored.
So, I decided on the chicken wrap for Stephen, then into the menu speaker said, “And a vanilla ice cream cone, please.” Just saying it felt deliciously sneaky.
As I waited for my delight to be delivered, I noticed on my console that the temperature outside was 102⁰. Oh well, I figured I could eat it plenty fast before it melted. After all, I had to have it finished before I delivered lunch to Stephen – if I was to be really sneaky, that is.
The server handed me my ice cream cone first. Lick. Then she gave me Stephen’s chicken wrap, then his drink, then his straw. Lick. I must have been on excitement-overdrive, because I handed the server the straw as payment.
“Oops!” I said, then handed her the real money.
Lick, lick, lick. At last, alone with my ice cream cone. Yummy as it was, I knew I’d have no trouble finishing it before one of two deadlines: before arriving at Stephen’s office, or before it melted – whichever came first.
I pulled out of Sonic’s driveway as one side of the cone dripped with thick, white cream. Lick. No problem.
I had just about worked my way down to the cone when something dripped on the my lap. Huh? I’d been keeping up with the stubborn melting just fine. Where had that drip come from?
I checked the bottom of the cone. There was another dollop of cream ready to fall to my lap. A dilemma! How would I keep ice cream from oozing through the bottom of the cone, dripping all over me – exposing my afternoon delight?
I licked furiously. Top, sides and bottom. But with every lick, the cone grew softer, drippier. It was a race to see who would win – the ice cream cone or me.
You might ask why I didn’t discard the mess out the window. Funny, at the time, that didn’t even enter my mind.
At last, I pulled up to Stephen’s office. In a desperate attempt to savor every last bite, I bit into the bottom. I thought the cone was empty of ice cream.
It was not.
When coolness oozed through my pants, I looked down to find a large glop of melted ice cream in my lap. Unfortunately, the measly napkin was little help in wiping up the mess on my steering wheel, on the seat of the car, on me. I was left with a coating of shredded napkin mixed with dried, sticky, smelly cream.
When I handed Stephen’s lunch to him, his gaze fixed on the messy spot on my pants. “What happened?” he asked.
Mea culpa time.
I had two choices: I wet my pants, or I spilled ice cream all over myself.
Darnit, I never get away with sinful pleasures.