The thing about pints of ice cream and tiny dorm room refrigerators is that they conspire to make you overweight.
Yes, a pint is too much for one serving and actually contains 3-ish servings. Yes, the said refrigerator technically has a “freezer.” But really, that “freezer” is not a good ice cream steward. Your half-a-pint leftovers will be soup in the morning. Not that I ever considered eating ice cream in the morning. Ever.
It’s this soup phenomenon that forced, yes forced, me to finish every pint of ice cream I ever purchased at the campus c-store during my freshman year of college. Because who in their right mind would waste ice cream?
And that, my friends, is where the freshmen 15 is born. (Where it dies is still a mystery to me.)
Technically, I wasn’t quite a twentysomething that fateful year of Blue Bell pints. But, those tensions and dreams that I think define our twenties were blooming then.
The desire to push and pull and create was alive and beginning to kick.
The anxiety over “making it” was growing.
The feeling that I had four years to figure out every single one of my major life decisions had started to crawl up my spine and pull on my mind.
Questions about faith and friendship and love floated around the margins of up-all-night study sessions, hilarious adventures with roommates, and incredibly fun nights at midnight yell. Those questions froze me into indecision and confusion sometimes.
And it turns out that Bluebell pints weren’t the answer.