by Gail M Feldman

Created on: September 25, 2010

No Ice, Please

I never liked ice, in my drinks or under my feet. It never occurred to me that disliking it under my feet was unusual, since, well, I fall down, lots of klutzes (and even nonklutzes) fall down... it doesn't seem to need much explanation. But regarding drinks, so many people do like ice - cubed, crushed or even slushed - that I got to wondering if my aversion had a source beyond the platitude that there is no accounting for taste (of COURSE there is! It's just rude to JUDGE it.) All I could come up with was that I'd been

weaned too early. I was, you know. Mom was a firm believer in breast-feeding but, just our luck, she got sick soon after I popped out (almost in the taxi, and at any rate five weeks ahead of schedule) and was issued antibiotics along with an admonishment that they'd pollute her supply and give me grief. So off the endless free flow of mother's milk was I dragged (I'd hate to think kicking and screaming; I was an easy child compared to my sister, who turned her head and would NOT leave the exit channel - and would that not make a good cable network for the depressed? You are tuned, temporarily, to the EXIT Channel! But I digress...) to the narrow-nippled, only-holds-what-it-holds bottle.

My subsequent research has been far from controlled, much less in-depth, but so far it indicates that folks (at least the ones I've bothered to ask) like ice in direct proportion to how late they were weaned, and those who were, to misquote Willy's intention, "untimely rip't" tend not to appreciate H2O in solid form as much as the rest of the adult population.

Do you know how hard it is to remember to add "No ice, please" to your drink order, even on dog days, while perusing a menu, encouraging one's not-the-fastest-reader of a boyfriend to choose a meal before it's time for the NEXT meal, and watching the waitress' apron ties disappear down the aisle before you've quite formulated the request? Well, okay, after 51 years on this complicated earth I should probably have it down pat, but I don't. I simply don't. I forget, or I'm not fast enough, or there is an earthquake, or something else happens to prevent me from preventing the clinking of ice against my teeth from preventing me from rudely gulping my drink, as if I were happily suckling once more, carefree and ice- free.

One of these days, perhaps when I am old enough to forget everything else, leaving room in my abandoned brain for such important issues, I shall remember consistently to ensure the timely 86-ing of the ice. Until then, I'm afraid shall remain the minor bane of most waitstaff I encounter.

At least I'm not Jack Nicholson in "Five Easy Pieces." ("You want me to hold the chicken?" "Hold it between your legs!")

Dog days back? Yesterday my air conditioner wasn't functioning but aforementioned boyfriend hosed off the ice that had accumulated thereon, and it's working fine now. So come on over for some lemonade, and we'll talk about issues that move the world: war, peace, early weaning. But you'll have to bring your own ice.

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