Ahhh guilty pleasures we all have them and we should all succumb to them unless of course your guilty pleasure involves massive amounts of cocaine and killing sprees, perhaps you should probably find less harmful ways to indulge yourself like eating gelato when it isn’t even time for dessert. Reading grisly and suspenseful murder mysteries could satisfy the killing urge. Binge watching <i>Justified</i> will help with the adrenaline factor. I’m a bit of an expert on satisfying guilty pleasures because I’ve got a lot of them and I’m not afraid to exploit them as an effort to sate the Septum pellucidum one of the pleasure centers of the brain.
I’m not mad for ice cream. If it’s in the freezer I’ll eat it. And OMG this winter–when I was ensconced on the couch in a corset style brace (That sounds way sexier than it really was)–The Handsome Stranger would sneak ice cream sandwiches into the cart at evil Sam’s Club. Doesn’t he realize I have limited if any self control?
But I digress…
…what else is new….
But sorbet and gelato? Oh…my….yes…yes…yes… Never mind sorbet and gelato are fancier versions of ice cream. It isn’t as yummy and satisfying as its French and Italian friends. Especially if the gelato and sorbet isn’t for dessert. Much better on the whim of: “I think it’s time for sorbet!” “It’s dessert somewhere, I’m having a hefty scoop of gelato now!” But this wasn’t always a healthy thing to do. Once upon a time I would reach for the gelato and eat my feelings. (“Hello seratonin uptake receptors, it’s me Laura. I brought the double cream Italian ice cream you crave.”)
My most memorable gelatos were the day I spent in Venice. It was the last stop on a cruise my parents included me on. I was so excited about Venice: I wanted to roam the tiny streets, see the Guggenheim collection. My sister wanted to shop for beads. My parents didn’t care as long as the four of us were together. My sister has the strongest personality and so like sheep the three of us tagged behind her. To say I was angry about missing the art collection is an understatement. But I swallowed that anger in large scoops of hazelnut, chocolate, raspberry, and espresso happiness. The ready availability of gelato for 2€ a scoop made the day of obsessive bead buying more enjoyable. I think I spent more money drowning my sorrows in gelato than she did in beads. Looking back on that day, I think I’m angrier at myself for eating my feelings rather than confronting them. But maybe this is why gelato became the method of fluffing up sagging spirits.
Fortunately, I’ve improved my relationship with food and eating without hunger has a spoken mantra: “This is the part where I eat my feelings.” Refusing to eat my feelings was the perfect accessory to slashing through carbs for a much needed weight loss. This winter’s exploitative use of Klondike bars were solely because the evil things taste so good. Each bite was one of joy sprinkled with…oh my god, I can’t work this shit off…
Too bad my lust for complexity doesn’t exist beyond my taste buds. I consider myself a “reader” and aspire to be the person who won’t delve into anything on the New York Times best seller list and would never stoop to reading “genre fiction”. I wish all I read were intricate and deep literary novels by writers like A.S Byatt. I wish I were more like my housemates who read big brainy philosophical fiction like Rand or Heinlein.
I do love to read and now that I’m writing for a couple of sites, I don’t have that much time for it. So when I sit down with a book, it’s a guilty pleasure and nine times out of ten the title includes an aristocratic title, an adjective modifier, and a verb. The only reason I can hold my head up high is I am a discerning glutton and if the author—or her editor–slips up and allows a 20th century word or phrase into a narrative of the 19th or 18th century I will never return to that author again. She will be shunned and mocked by me. It’s important I’m not jarred from my fantasy world of Regency England with twenty-first century “sexy” talk. Now if it’s a “lascivious exchange” we will enjoy a long and happy relationship as reader and writer. In case you worry after my brain, I have started The Fountainhead. I just haven’t managed to finish because I have been too busy reading historicals. I love a novel about the rich and titled who have nothing better to do than spy on the French, get tricked into marriage, lose their virginity on purpose, run away from evil spouses, or discover their true identities. But it’s always a picturesque fictive universe with a happy ending.
This is where my serious pursuits and guilty pleasures converge. A happy end is my chief goal in life. Whatever I wish for, seek, pursue ultimately I am hoping for a happy ending with a marvelous person who would spy on the French if need be.
That might just be the guiltiest pleasure of all.