May I first start out by saying: we went out of town for the weekend, and I was mildly afraid we were going to die in a car accident and my last post would be about poop. People would go to my blog to read about my life and they would say, “And look, the last thing she wrote about is… poop…”
Thank goodness I didn’t die.
Because I have something to say about ice cream.
This weekend, we met up with my brother at a mall. While waiting for him, my husband bought me a small soft serve chocolate ice cream cone from Dairy Queen. I haven’t had a soft serve chocolate ice cream cone from Dairy Queen in ages, and oh man! They are SO good! I may have mentioned it eleven million or so times…
On the drive home, my husband stopped in town along the way to use the bathroom. He just so happened to stop at Dairy Queen. And he just so happened to come out with four cones and (what I HOPE were) clean hands. He had two small vanilla cones for the two small welfare critters in the backseat who depend on us for basically everything (and we love it), one dipped chocolate cone for him, and one gigantic chocolate cone for me.
I was touched.
It was basically soft-serve love in a cone.
I stared at it for all of three seconds before my brain went all female.
“I can’t eat this. I’m trying to lose weight. He knows I’m trying to lose weight. Why would he get me a giant cone if he knew I was trying to lose weight? He WANTS me to lose weight. I wish he would have gotten a smaller cone. Then again, if he HAD gotten a smaller cone THAT would have meant the he couldn’t stand the THOUGHT of his FAT WIFE eating a GIANT chocolate ice cream cone, but he could somehow stomach her eating a SMALL cone…”
And then I quit thinking and ate the bleeping cone.
Because sometimes having a female brain is just SO…
SO…
…
…
I want to type “ridiculous” but it seems miles of insufficient.
And the ice cream was amazing. This morning’s workout? Wellllll, let’s not talk about it.
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