Thirty-something speaks

Hi. My name is Mike and I'm an addict.

There I said it. The first step is admitting the problem. The next step is conquering my addiction, but what if I really don't want to? Life is so full of ups and downs. It's just so nice to be able to count on the simple pleasures in this world one, two, or seven nights a week. I'm not harming any one else, and do it in the privacy of my own home...most of the time.

I blame my wife. She is completely responsible for my current condition. Before I met her, I didn't think much about the stuff. I was an occasional social user at worst. Now, I'm using almost nightly, because she introduced me to things I never imagined possible. I never imagined such pleasure could come from a freezer.

It's ice cream, Man! I'm not talking about a scoop of vanilla or chocolate beside some birthday cake. I'm into the hard stuff thanks to my wife, and I can't see my addiction fading along as Scottie Mayfield and his little bow tie keep pushing Moose Tracks and the like on me.

What sane human being eats ice cream with chunks of fudge and tiny peanut butter cups floating in it on a nightly basis? What depraved genius dreamed up this stuff? I can't just eat a small bowl of vanilla anymore. I have to have a pile of ice cream, chocolate, and peanut butter just to satisfy my sick appetite.

Unfortunately, I'm on my own with this addiction because ice cream hasn't exactly gotten the attention of the DEA or politicians. The stuff is available on practically every street corner. Go to the beach and there is some kind of stand every two blocks. If that's not convenient enough, then here comes the guy in the van blasting that creepy music driving down the cul de sac right to my driveway and practically to my front door.

It's an epidemic, and I'm the poster boy. I don't stand out in a crowd. Nobody's going to look at me and say, "Look at that poor, pathetic ice cream head," but my kitchen floor, the stairs, and my bedroom are all scarred with the evidence of melted vanilla fudge twirl droppings. Most of my T- shirts have some kind of reminder of the previous night's over indulgence. Sometimes I'm a walking advertisement for bibs. I'm not proud. I'm just addicted, and I need help.

I suffer from ice cream headaches and the shiver shakes constantly. I live in fear that Moose Tracks won't be enough. I've already lost taste for Breyers Chocolate Chip and Cookies n Cream. Haagen Dazs just doesn't cut it anymore, and Ben and Jerry's most popular flavor taste like fruit. I can't have fruit messing up my fudge, Man.

What's a guy to do? There aren't exactly support groups for this kind of thing. My friends and family aren't intervening. They're asking me to pass the chocolate syrup. I don't think Dr. Phil is planning a special episode on the dangerous integration of vanilla, fudge, and peanut butter cups. I do know that evil man in the bow tie has come out with Extreme Moose Tracks. I'm not there yet, but it's only a matter of time unless someone puts a stop to Scottie Mayfield and my obsession with his product.