Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop, Should Stop
My mom used to bake sweets for my brother and me. On days when she felt extra generous (or couldn’t handle our pleading anymore), she granted us free reign on the cookie jar. Without fail we’d eat and eat, our pudgy, chocolate-covered fingers smearing powdered sugar across the fronts of our shirts. We never felt sick enough to choose not to do the same thing the next time we were granted unlimited access, but eventually we seemed to grow out of the habit of eating as though it was the last taste of sugar we’d ever have.
But some habits never really leave you, do they?
I was with a fellow advertising friend (Clara) and the main squeeze (Kent) scouting out lunch options as we wandered downtown Austin. Clara recommended Frank, a church turned restaurant that serves homemade sausage.
The atmosphere was fun and eclectic, keeping my curious mind enthralled at all times. The food was full of flavor and served in large portions, as any proper Texas sausage house should do.
Once we finished our scrumptious gourmet hot dogs (who knew that was such a thing?) the dessert menu was presented to us, and the mouthwatering descriptions along with the waitress’ gentle prodding convinced us to order some milkshakes. Clara ordered The Crunch Berries and Kent and I opted to split the PB & Oreo, because at the time I saw myself as a mature, responsible adult.
Sometimes I overestimate myself.
The waitress delivered the concoction of sweet happiness, half in a classic milkshake glass, half still in the metal canister used to mix the ingredients. Kent claimed the glass and I went to work on the canister while Clara started in on hers.
This is where it begins to get a bit fuzzy for me.
The shake was everything I hoped it would be. But it was the experience of consuming the frozen beverage that I think really had me hooked. One bite at a time was not enough, so I scooped spoonful after spoonful into my mouth hole before I even had time to swallow the previous one. This lasted several minutes, my tongue growing colder, pulse beating faster, and consciousness becoming less apparent. When I snapped out of it, Kent and Clara were both staring at me with a mixture of amazement, concern, and slight contempt.
I looked to my glass, hoping, praying there was even a sip more. But it sat empty. And so did two other cups that had somehow made their way over to my placemat.
I glanced nervously towards Kent, his spoon midair and dripping with melted ice cream.
“Did I…”
He nodded, still in a trance at what he’d just witnessed.
Wanting to deny the truth, I motioned across the table in Clara’s direction, avoiding eye contact.
“Did you enjoy my milkshake, Addie?” Her question answered my own, and the embarrassment was enough to keep me from reaching over to lick their spoons clean.
I hadn’t pulled a stunt like that in years. I didn’t even know I was still capable of that kind of sweet-snatching whirlwind. I was terrified at the monster I had relapsed into, but my punishment would come soon enough as I spent the next hour comatose and sickly.
These days, I try to remind myself that free reign on anything comes with a high price if you don’t know your limits. And when someone encourages me to grow into an adult that my younger self would look up to, I know there are some habits that are worth growing out of.