Museum of Ice Cream

One of the first things I thought upon entering the Museum of Ice Cream was that it was clearly designed for people much younger than I am. And I'm not even that old. The kind of place that's dripping with whimsy. The kind of place with bottlenecks around every corner while each person takes a selfie in literally every room. The kind of place where they make you answer questions like "What worry are you going to let go once you enter this room" or "Give me the name of someone not with you at the museum today who is a cherry on top of your life?" I confess the introvert in me really just wanted them to give me the ice cream rather than make me repeatedly kumbaya en masse with a bunch of strangers.

On the other hand, when was the last time someone asked you about the person you consider the cherry on top of your life, causing you to think about the aunt to whom you've gone with every work, boy, and life issue you can remember? I mean, isn't that a question worth considering? When was the last time you let go of the drama of an upcoming work trip? Shouldn't letting completely useless crap go be a life requirement? When was the last time you were asked about an ice cream memory and it brought you back to your hometown soft serve joint and how you used to save your pennies for a sweet treat? For that matter, when was the last time you had ice cream, Pop Rocks, and cotton candy all in the same day? 

By the time I immersed myself in the (literal) pool of sprinkles, I was pretty convinced not only that we are never too old for this, but also that the world could use more of it. As I climbed out of the pool and took stock of my rolled pant cuffs, now heavy with sprinkles, I purposely didn't empty them all the way out as instructed. And something about seeing the color I left behind me in the streets of San Francisco throughout the day reminded me that sweetness is pretty universal. So are dreams. So is smiling. So are love, honesty, and digging deep in a place you never would have expected to.