Why Some Rules Shouldn't Be Broken

We went out for a family ice cream this weekend.

Now I'm not talking about grabbing a calypso from the local newsagent, here. I’m talking about heading (in the car) to one of those Charlie's Chocolate factory-esque gelaterias that offer a counter-full of over 30 mouth-watering flavours - each of which represents a different shade on the colour spectrum.

Fantasy toppings mimicking the food they symbolise: bitter dark crispy caramel for the creme brulee, soft chocolate sponge and shiny icing for the sacher torte, swirls of ochre sugar for the dolce de leche.

It was a feast for the eyes. Let alone the mouth.

And whilst I don't normally eat ice cream - not to be a goodie too shoes but because I don't actually like them that much (give me chocolate any day) - my inner pig just couldn't resist this locally-sourced, home-made smorgasbord of cream and fat.

And because it was almost impossible to choose which out of the spread should be the lucky one - provoking a serious culinary FOMO (in me anyhow) - we all went for not just the one but TWO scoops each.

Mistake: two out of three kids couldn't finish theirs - too rich; I ended up feeling quite sick after only two-thirds of mine (even though I of course forced myself to finish) and we ended up throwing one of the kids ginormous cones away.

So was it worth it? Was it even a ‘treat’ in the end? I’m not sure.

Because almost immediately afterwards, my stomach retaliated. I felt really nauseous and my belly started to balloon until I spent the next 24 hours looking almost 6 months pregnant.

Which taught me a lesson.

That whilst I have spent many years trying to FREE myself up from the many rules I have previously imposed on myself (what I should eat or not, the amount of exercise I should do in order to compensate for what I have eaten or not, the amount of work I should do in a day before 'deserving' a rest etc) that not all rules are there to be disbanded and that some are there for a good reason.

Firstly, that I shouldn't really eat ice cream (which might be the reason why I don’t like it much) because I probably suffer from some sort of lactose intolerance. And if I absolutely have to, it should be in moderation.

Secondly, that the quantity of something I eat, doesn't relate to the pleasure I get out of it: basic stuff really. The kind of thing I had drummed into me as a child "so who's got eyes bigger than their stomach?" but never really got.

But maybe that's WHY I never learnt my lesson back then? Precisely because I was unconsciously rallying against the threat of humiliation. And later, giving myself portions sizes that were too big (but finishing them anyway) symbolised indulging in the adult freedom I had to do what I want to do without judgement?

Who knows.

This time however, I think the penny’s finally dropped. That was one scoop too many. And too many hours spent feeling pregnant.

Lesson learnt. Now to teach the kids.