Have you ever skated on thin ice? It’s a rush, isn’t it? I used to skate on a little neighborhood lake. In the middle of the lake, there was an island. The water never freezes hard right at the edge of the shore, so it laps over the top of it, resurfacing several yards around the perimeter of the island better than a Zamboni could. Really fun to skate on! Trapped within this surprisingly solid, black ice, you could see colorful, frozen fish, staring eerily up at you as you sliced through the wet ice and listened for it to crack.
The sound of thin ice cracking is a deadly reminder…
And now, without further ado, it’s time to break rule number 28 from “31 Ways Not to Use Your Blog #FridayReflections” Here, hold my beer – I’ve got this (and I’m humming, “Hope none of my exes live in Texas…”):
Actually, it’d probably be fair to say that I’m the “@#$% ex,” if anyone is. I’m Facebook Friends with two of them; a third taught my daughter to surf when she was twelve (he’s the only person in the world I’d have trusted to take my child out into the Atlantic on a longboard). This is what happens when you choose your friends and potential mates wisely – you really can’t call any of them @#$%es.
There was that one time, though…
G and I had gone on the bus to the mall to do some Christmas shopping. He bought me an ice cream cone at Baskin-Robbins. Now, if you’ve ever been to Baskin-Robbins, you know that they feature 31 delicious and ever-changing flavors of ice cream, and that they will give you a free spoonful to taste-test any of them, on request. As we left the store, G asked if he could taste mine.
“No.” Ewww. “Go back and get a sample!” In my defense, I was – what – 14? We’d never even kissed. We’d only been dating for about 5 or 6 months. I was not sharing an ice cream cone with the boy.
I had eaten only about half of the ice cream cone when something caught my eye – I asked G to hold my cone for me while I ducked inside the store to look closer. I had found a present for my mom. I could not have been in there more than a couple of minutes, but when I returned and retrieved my ice cream cone, I knew that it had been licked by a tongue that was not mine.
Never would be mine.
I have a habit of licking around the ice cream scoop and over the top. I don’t bite into it or lick up the sides. No, G had done as I’d expressly forbidden him to do – he took liberties with my ice cream cone. No, ladies, this is not a metaphor: He took liberties with my damned ice cream cone. Right there in the mall. In public.
I dumped it into the nearest trash can. He offered to buy me a new one; I gave him a withering look.
Arguably, I’m the @#$% ex.
Now, we’re both happily married to other people and have beautiful, grown up children with them – as my mom would have said, “If it’s meant to be, it will be.” It wasn’t meant to be.
And one sign it was “meant to be” with my husband? I happily offered him a bite of my ice cream cone. And I barely flinched when he took it.
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