sundaes

Can’t I, for once, get away with doing something embarrassing without getting caught for it? Is it a law, written in stone, that one cannot do stupid things without running into someone who will point it out, or, in my case, an entire group of people?

Here’s the deal:

I don’t eat too many dessert-type things these days. Even when I do, it’s usually in the form of a sugar-free low-fat pudding cup or a Kashi while grain oatmeal raisin excuse-for-a-cookie. Mostly, I am totally lame and increasingly old and increasingly responsible that way.

However, every once in a while, a feeling in me builds for a no-holds-barred out-of-control ice cream sundae. Something monumental. Something breathtaking.

One of these days was Sunday night. It had been kind of warm for the first time since spring began and while I was finishing up my work for the day, I heard the alluring sounds of the neighborhood ice cream truck that had been silent since September. I had an ice cream need.

By the time I had roused Ben to my cause the truck had left, so we made our way the short two blocks to the local Carvel. Once there, I ordered what turned out to be the biggest sundae the world has ever known. It was easily eight inches high, with the cherry perilously perched on top of the whole production as if the whipped cream around were high-altitude clouds - as if it should be pitching a flag.

The thing was huge. The thing was enormous. I had to carry it like a science project.

On the other hand, while my ice cream turned out to be much larger than we had imagined, Ben’s choice turned out to be much smaller than he wanted - his ice cream looked like it belonged in a doll house. Together — little me with my huge ice cream and huge Ben with his little ice cream — we headed home.

Then, though - then! - with only two blocks to hurry home - two! - we ran into some friends. And we never, ever run into friends in Queens. They seemed excited to see us, and I was mortified. There was Ben, looking overly fit and healthy with his child’s size scoop pinched between two fingers, and me looking like a glutton. I didn’t know what to do, so I did what naked people do in the movies: I took my tiny hand and tried to cover as much of the sundae as I could, which wasn’t much at all. It was a sad effort.

Then someone pointed it out and I laughed it off.

Then someone pointed out how small Ben’s ice cream selection was in relation to mine and I laughed it off.

Then we hurried home and I ate the whole thing, as if I were destroying the evidence.

The point, though, is that I can’t ever seem to do anything embarrassing without someone else finding out about. Just once, can’t I fall down without someone being there to see? Just once, can’t I eat an enormous dessert in peace? Perhaps while crying a little?