Screaming for Ice Cream

“Let’s do Italian!” Lorraine says. “I think we did salads last time, so let’s get some pasta.”

We agree on a place midway between our homes. We’ve known each other professionally for years. A few weeks ago, we had a friendly lunch and talked for an hour and a half.

Lorraine must weigh all of a hundred pounds and I’m dying to see what she’ll eat when we’re not noshing on salads. Even at a salad place, I add bread and croutons. I tell myself I’ll have the salad, but I am

weak, and I know I’ll go for the chicken parm and at least one round of garlic toast. I smile just thinking about all that garlicky goodness.

We snag a table near the bar and order a glass of wine. Lorraine dealt with several grumpy clients today, so she orders the supersize. I’ll only sip at mine because I’m driving. The headline, “Grandmother of five arrested for drunk driving” is one of my many nightmares.

“I should order the salad,” I say.

“Not me. I’m having lasagna.”

“In that case, I’ll have the chicken parm.” It’s like we’re playing calorie poker.

We catch up on kids, grandkids, dogs, jobs, and the lack of decent men. Lorraine shovels lasagna like a miner tunneling for gold. Where does she put it?

“So, what do you do for exercise?” I ask.

“I walk the dog in the morning and evening and try to take a yoga class or two each week.”

That’s it? She looks likes she runs a marathon every other day.

“You’re not having dessert?” Lorraine peruses the menu sprinkled with tiramisu and gelato.

“I had dessert twice last week, so I’d better not.” Truth be told, I ate ice cream for dinner last night. Just ice cream. With a wine chaser.

“My goodness!” Lorraine sets down her menu. “Every evening, I walk the dog and then come home and have a bowl of ice cream before bed.” She smiles. “I can’t sleep unless I have my ice cream.”

“Every night?” It’s like she’s saying she wins the lottery. Every night.

I know some folks have higher metabolisms than others, but Lorraine’s must be on overdrive. I know she can’t help it, but I hate her just a tiny bit.

Lorraine closes the menu. “I’ll wait for my dessert until I get home, then.”

We agree to meet again in a few weeks. I watch her car back out and she waves.

Ice cream every night? Now I can’t stop thinking about ice cream. I smile because there’s some left in the carton I opened last night.