Bluebell Blues

Why do I torture myself like this, I ask while pushing my cart through the freezer aisle at Publix. Past the frozen waffles, the frozen pizzas, the frozen hamburgers; I halt as I come up to the ice cream section. Don't stop now. Don't turn your head. But I always do. Stopping, to bask in the chill air and to gaze upon the many diverse flavours of life's sweetest dessert which I can no longer enjoy.

It seems like ages ago that my dentist handed me a shocking diagnosis after my semi-yearly appointment in May: either I quit my ice cream habit or risk a root canal. I scoffed at the idea of parting from my sweet frozen love, until he wrote down for me the potential cost of such an operation causing a forlorn wind to flutter through my wallet. No more midnight freezer raids. I remember walking out of that horrid place holding a receipt for the filling of two cavities in my hands and a frigid heartbreak in my chest; I was met by a comfortable breeze, though at the time it was a hot and humid one which immediately kindled a powerful craving for a single-scoop Chocolate-Chip Cookie Dough. It would prove to be just a taste of things to come.

Now, as we exit a month in which the USA went from melting pot to boiling pot, layers of my rationality seem to evaporate daily (along with the green from my front lawn). Considering the volume of ice cream I consumed daily before the summer, it's a wonder I have not suffered a complete relapse amidst this swelter. So far I can count on one hand the amount of times I have broken my no-ice-cream conviction. Such a number of lapses, I think, are acceptable when cutting off an ice cream addiction cold turkish. In my dreams, I lick the thousands of ice cream-covered fingers on that one hand, but alas morning never fails to melt those delicious digits one-by-one until only five salty human-flavored fingers remain.

The sadistic smile of the summer sun beats down on my back as I wade through flavourless day after flavourless day. I notice now a broken-ness seeping into my behavior just as the slow trickle of melted ice cream seeps onto the fingers and into the clothes of the absent-minded waffle-cone holder. I open the freezer when I need the fridge. Whenever I drink milk, the glass shakes violently. I order pancakes at IHOP and use chocolate syrup on the butter. As the temperature rises, my brain comes to resemble a double-scoop of Strawberry ice cream. And how easy it is to see the world in terms of ice cream. In the lecture hall, I observe my fellow student scoops. We come in all kinds of flavours: Vanilla, Chocolate, Curry, Green Tea, even some Jamaican Rum. Of course, some scoops are mixed and mingled while some, like French Vanilla, come in several variations; all of them have their own assortment of toppings. After all, no two scoops are exactly the same.

Two scoops. What I wouldn't give for just one scoop. My hand reaches out and rests on the pane that lies between me and shivering ecstasy. One scoop of blissful, homely Bluebell; of rich, indulgent Haagen Dazs; of eccentrically interesting Ben & Jerrys; of venerable, cultured Edys; or of surprisingly wonderful Publix brand. How I wish to dive into a rippling lake of French Vanilla; to scale the rugged Chocolate Chip ridges and hike its Rocky Road; to roll along the tri-colored plains of the Neapolitan; to search the Chocolate marshes for hidden Turtle Tracks; to take the path less travelled by and fall upon Butter Pecan. And drizzled on top of it all, the chocolate syrup. And poured on top of it all, the chocolate syrup. And covered until nothing but chocolate syrup can be seen, the chocolate-

"Sir! Please do not lick the glass"

"Uhweh (Sorry)... Eum Theugh (I'm stuck )."

Downcast, I exit the store to immediate perspiration and recoil when I reach my car. The door handle about burns my skin or melts it... like ice cream. I can feel my strawberry-flavoured brain melting into a sticky syrup, but I don't care. After scanning the immediate area, I slowly bring my fingers to my mouth. Lick. Dejection. Still salty human-flavoured. Sweat rolls down my cheek and I check the temperature in the car. Still 100 degrees outside. In my shopping bag lies: cereal and whole-wheat bread. No ice cream. Reclining, I stick my sweaty tush to the car seat and sigh. If I end up needing a root canal, a certain dentist might just end up exploding in a pool of blood-flavoured Strawberry ice cream.