Let me be your ice cream soup

As a kid I incurred a lot of goodhearted flack for my, apparently, really odd way of enjoying ice cream. And even now that society might tenuously call me an “adult,” my ice cream ritual hasn’t changed. It’s not complicated. I serve up a generous portion – usually vanilla – and stir it until it resembles soft-serve. That’s it. My sister affectionately deemed it “ice cream soup,” and still giggles at me when she sees me do it.

I’m 28. While I’m sure I bear stark contrast to myself ten years ago, even one year ago, the only thing I can say for sure is that “growing up” happens without your consent. Being a “grown up,” on the other hand (hate to split hairs but follow me here), is not only a matter of choice, it’s a lot harder than it looks.

I could (and likely will) wander down some decidedly self-indulgent rabbit holes while trying to explain this whole phenomenon in greater (exhaustive, and heavily parenthetical!) detail, but I just want to start with the big idea: the pursuit of contentment. Happiness, sure. That’ll happen a lot. But refining contentment is like learning how to drive. [Insert “bumps in the road” analogies here, ad nauseam] It takes time and practice, and the greater idea is to create your own happinesses (not a word, not not a word, to quote MR), and indulge yourself once in a while.

So that’s what this project is. B L O G. The word is something I might use to get peanut butter off the roof of my mouth, but here we are. I hope you’ll enjoy this, like the requisite indulgences we all need in our pursuit of contentment. Let me be your ice cream soup.

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