We need to talk about the traumatic experience of someone eating your food.
Let me set the scene. The day was yesterday. I had just finished up at a job and it was time to celebrate.
I walked up the street (#fitspo) and bought myself a small Ben and Jerry’s tub of chocolate fudge brownie ice cream.
(Note: This post is not sponsored by Ben and Jerry’s. But…can it be? Can I get free Ben and Jerry’s? Please?)
The feeling of it in my hand as I left the shop was nothing short of magical. I think I actually smiled at it. I lent down and whispered to it, as though it was my newborn child, “mm I’m putting you in the freezer for later.”
When I got home I did indeed put it in the freezer for later. Now, I can forget to send emails, make phone calls, book appointments and make my bed, but I will NEVER forget to put my ice cream in the freezer.
I thought about it all night. I fantasized about it…sitting there…getting more frozen. I got my things done. I smiled intermittently…as though I had a secret that no one else knew. Which I did. Because I hadn’t told anyone else it was there, because I’m not an idiot.
Anyway. It got to precisely 9:26pm and I thought “oh yes, this is the perfect time for my dessert”. So I made my way to the freezer.
There it was. Just where I had left it. Sitting on top of some frozen pea’s that I swear we’ve had for like two decades. But none of that mattered.
I grabbed it with my hand.
And I knew something wasn’t right.
It didn’t feel right.
So I opened it.
It was virtually all gone. Except for this slippery mess of melted ice cream that looked like backwash.