Anti-Bucket

My recent musings come from a late night experience I had last week. I was home playing a game of spider solitaire on the computer and having my near-daily dose of ice cream. Now, I'll be honest. Spider solitaire has become an obsession. I finally had to delete it off my work computer because it was SO distracting. And I don't admit to people how often I've been playing it because I think it's ridiculous. It's one of the few things that will draw me to the computer when I'm not at work -- that and selling things on Ebay. And I'm not sure why I play it because it actually frustrates the crap out of me. Is the difficult level really winnable every time? Because I can only seem to win every 20 times or so. It could just be that I suck. But I prefer to think that winning would be impossible. It makes me feel smarter. :)

Anyhow, before I sat down to my love/hate computer game, I got a bowl of ice cream. As I mentioned previously, I've been in the habit of eating ice cream almost every day lately. So, on I went about my daily business. As I was scooping, I noticed I was starting to reach the bottom of my stockpile. Normally, when this happens, the only thing I'm thinking is, "Oh no! Must buy more ice cream!" This time, however, I was disconcerted for an entirely different reason.

This particular container of ice cream was a large bucket -- the kind that when you get to the bottom you risk getting your whole arm sticky trying to dig down to its plunging, vat-like depths. Those buckets are GINORMOUS. They would feed entire villages for weeks in third world countries if they could afford the expensive temperature-controlled shipping costs to get them there.

By the way, I don't normally buy ice cream by the bucket. We happened to have this bucket left over from some event my mother had been a part of. And I'm all about left overs and free food. It was about half-full when I started (that comforts me slightly.). But the facts were, and still are, unsettling. My parents hadn't been eating any of this. So, I had only me, myself and I to hold accountable. I had, all by myself, eaten all the way down to the bottom of the bucket. And there I was. I'd hit rock bottom. Or bucket bottom. Whatever. If there were an ice cream rehab, at that moment I would have been motivated enough to admit myself.

All at once, I was keenly aware of the genius of those bite-sized Ben & Jerry cartons that look big enough to satiate an ant, and the liberation in Haagen Daz and other fine ice creams who only deal in smaller portions. The naked truth is you will never, EVER get to the bottom of the bucket with these ice creams. You may, indeed, consume just as many calories with all those wholesome, high-quality, full cream, more fat than exists in an entire cow ingredients, but it will be pint-sized calories. So, at least mentally, you'll feel much better.

Okay, so I was only somewhat traumatized, considering I ate my bowl of ice cream that night, regardless. And there is still a good serving or two left in the depths of the bucket. But it's been over a week and I can't stomach going back and finishing the bucket. It's a BUCKET for pete's sake! I may secretly over-indulge in spider solitaire, and maybe even shopping. But an ice cream bucket is where I draw the line.