The Ice Cream Man Cometh.

There are two ways to grow old, I'm told.

You can either be old and fat.

Or you can be old and thin.

I am trying desperately, battling my genetics to be old and thin. Accordingly I have adopted what I'm calling "The Passover Diet." I have virtually removed bread, pasta, rice and grains of their ilk from my diet. Along the way, I've dropped 30 or so pounds, but have more to go, so I am sticking with the regimen.

Last night, however, after having run and walked for almost two hours earlier in the day, I felt I could reward myself with an ice cream cone from a Mr. Softee truck. Now that there are no more Carvels in Manhattan, their goodness being priced off our slim sliver of asphalt, Mr. Softee has to do. It's not bad ice cream, and since it's bought from the side of a truck, you walk and eat--not a bad way to rebel against the scourge of adipose-laden calories.

Having had a pretty shitty week in the office--nothing entirely unusual in that--and feeling particularly vulnerable at work, I did today what I often do. I thought about a different career.

There's not a lot I can do, I have a distinct absence of marketable skills, but I do have the money to buy a Mr. Softee franchise and truck.

I began doing research on the life of a Mr. Softee franchisee. Do you get to choose your route? What are the hours like? What happens in the Winter? Most important, how much money do you stand to make?

Tomorrow I'll get up my usual time and go to work. I'll do the work I do, work considerately with people, deal with clients and try to keep my sanity.

But, look! There's Mr. Softee, just over the horizon.