I was out at dinner this evening, my Sunday treat, especially now with the weather better. Downtown. In the far corner. Alone. On the sidewalk. My bike chained to the chair opposite me. A light sinus infection trying to up-ramp while I'm not looking.
Time for dessert, and I knew I should leave the heavier choices alone, no matter how good they are. They're good for a reason, and that reason flies in the face of a man working diligently to be ever less of a man.
I thought briefly, and asked my waiter if he could bring me some ice cream. Vanilla. It's not on the menu, per se, but they often serve ice cream with the other desserts, and I hoped he'd be able to work something out for me. I do love me some vanilla ice cream.
He asked a clarifying question about how many scoops, and disappeared. He didn't bat an eye, but he did return with my small bowl of ice cream, adding a delightful end to my very pleasant dinner, the growing sinus infection not withstanding.
He will be getting a card for that.