Can You Put Yourself First?

This is a story about an ice cream sundae.

Although it’s about so much more than that.

It’s about a moment in time that makes you realize things don’t necessarily have to be the way you’ve always assumed they need to be.

It’s about a spark to the brain that gives pause, far less painful than ice-cream-induced brain freeze.

It’s about the stories that stick with us like hot caramel sauce, long after we’ve experienced them – and about why – or how – we get stuck in unhelpful patterns.

The story takes place more than a decade ago. I’m out for ice cream with my daughter and my good friend, who is with her daughter.

I’ll call my friend Anna, though that’s not her real name. I’m not looking to question or shame her,10-12 years after the ice cream incident occurred. That would create another sticky situation, like that hot caramel.

If anything, she inspired me that day.

The girls, like us, are friends. The ice cream date must be in celebration of something – a recital or the completion of a school year. I don’t recall.

What I do recall is our order. After my daughter and I each ordered a small cup of ice cream and my friend’s daughter did the same, Anna stepped to the counter and ordered… an ice cream sundae.

Not a single scoop, as the rest of us did, but a full sundae, with hot fudge and whipped cream (not caramel – that’s just a better metaphor for this article).

And then – here’s the really crazy part – she sat down to eat it.

She didn’t explain or justify, or apologize. She didn’t mention she had worked out each day that week to treat herself to the sundae. She just picked up her spoon and started eating.

Weird, right?

I looked on longingly from my single scoop cup, which until moments before had been making me very happy. I mean, who wouldn’t prefer the hot fudge sundae?

Her daughter looked over. “What did you get, Mom?”

“A sundae,” Anna replied.

And this is where it gets really weird.

She replied, and then…  she just kept eating.

I waited, my body tensing up.

I waited for her daughter to lose it, to demand a sundae for herself, too.

After all, her mother hadn’t suggested she order a sundae. Then again, she never said she couldn’t have one either.

But nothing happened. We just all sat there, eating our ice cream, Anna making audible noises of enjoyment.

And it struck me then, and to this day, years later…

… I would never do that.

I’m not the kind of person who can be the only person to order an ice cream sundae and then just eat it.

I realize that sounds absolutely ridiculous to say. Am I not an adult? Do I not have free agency? Am I horrifically lactose intolerant or something?

I am not.

So… why? Why, if I wanted to order a sundae, would I not just – I don’t know – get one?

Here’s why – or how – I justify that:

If I had ordered a sundae after my daughter got a single scoop, I would be besieged by her questions as to why I got something she didn’t. I’d guiltily offer her some of my sundae, maybe split it, or feel compelled to trade with her. Maybe I’d approach the counter and let her re-order to make things “even.”

I’d probably wind up apologizing over her perceived slight and admonish myself later for being so selfish as to think I could order myself a sundae without first conferring with my kid to make sure she wouldn’t be unhappy about it.

If I had been with both my kids in that situation, there would have been a near riot. And after I finished the sundae – if I was able to do so without handing it over to my kids (“Ok, fine, here YOU eat it…. I’ll just sit here with a napkin.”), I would have felt bad about myself after.

I’d bemoan the stomach ache I’d have later (OK, I am a little bit lactose-intolerant). I’d berate myself a day or two later when I couldn’t button up my pants without a giant inhale because obviously it must have been that one sundae that put me in that predicament.

It just wouldn’t be worth it to think of all the emotions I’d have to deal with. Like, I didn’t really need the sundae, I didn’t deserve the sundae. Why did I have the sundae?

And I acknowledge I come off here sounding like a spineless parent with a spoiled kid and a mild eating disorder because, as I reread this, it sounds a little silly at best and unhinged at worst.

I mean, it’s a nice idea, ordering a sundae, but you can’t actually do that. Can you?

Anna can. Anna did.

And she didn’t seem at all remorseful or guilt-induced or worried about her daughter or her pants.

“Yum, that was good,” she said, tossing our trash into the garbage. We head out the door and get on with our day.

It’s one of the things I love about Anna. She operates of her own volition, without much second-guessing or rumination. Her life is not easy,  and as her friend, I know there have been big struggles. But one thing she doesn’t do is sweat the small stuff.

I sweat when it’s hot. I sweat when it’s humid. And I most certainly sweat the small stuff.

And here I am, a dozen years later, still so amazed by that interaction that not only have I not forgotten about it, I’ve decided to write about it in scoop-by-scoop detail, like the articles I’ve written about cauliflower and kidney beans and hot dogs. I’m beginning to think I might be a bit food-obsessed. But it’s not about the food. It’s about the story we tell ourselves about the food.

Why is it that some of us struggle so much with the simple things, or worse, sweat them?

Does an adult need permission to order a sundae?

Do we worry about the impact our small choices will have on someone else? Or how we might justify our choices?

Obviously, I do. Perhaps you do too, if you’re still reading this.

Or perhaps you are more like Anna. You’re reading this while eating an ice cream sundae, thinking, “Just order the sundae, lady, what’s the big deal?”

If so, you inspire me too.

I’m too often in my own head, worried about what other people will think, more concerned with taking care of them first before considering my own needs.

Did I even get my preferred flavor that day? Or did I order the one I know my daughter would like to have a taste of, even though she also got her own?

Perhaps showing up for ourselves means checking in first with what we want at the moment and simply ordering it up wherever we are. Because no one is judging us more harshly than we judge ourselves.

And exercising that “me” muscle on small moments like those at the ice cream parlor are what strengthen us for the times when we really need to stand up for ourselves and ask for – or insist upon – what we need.

So it’s not really a story about ice cream at all.

It’s about the gumption to order it. Even if someone you know might write about it years later.

At least you know they’re writing it with admiration.

Valerie Gordon, the founder of The Storytelling Strategist,  is an author, workshop facilitator, trainer, and educator who helps high achievers get out of their heads and into their lives. She teaches the power of story – how to find inspiration in daily interactions and make the most of your messaging. Her favorite ice cream flavor is coffee Oreo. Also mint chocolate chip. It’s a toss-up up but she’s still unlikely to order a double scoop.