An open letter to the ice cream truck

Dear Ice Cream Truck,

As you can likely tell by my waistline, I'm a huge fan of your product, in more ways than one. You and I have always had a special bond - that shrill musical number you play could wake me from the deepest slumber and immediately send me scrambling for cash.

With that said, I'm finding it increasingly difficult to connect with you. You were designed to attract children playing outside, but my increasingly sedentary lifestyle makes it less and less likely that I'll be outside when you're in the neighborhood. Of course, when asked why I'm not outside getting exercise, I'll cite factors like an increased skin cancer risk, but really I just can't miss tonight's extra special episode of Obnoxious Housewives of Wherever, the opening segment of So You Think You Can Wretch, or three innings of a 9-2 baseball game. Without them I'll have nothing to discuss with my co-workers tomorrow.

As I slowly work my way towards getting too fat to leave the house, the concept of a magical vehicle that delivers ice cream is increasingly attractive. You have saved me a five minute walk (Who am I kidding? I drive there.) to the store for sugar and fat many times. However, your business model is now hit-and-miss with me, as I'm not always in a position to gather cash and waddle out to the street before you drive by at five miles per hour.

As such, I'd like to offer a suggestion: Next time, just pull in my driveway and honk the horn. If I don't answer, the key is under the mat - please put ice cream in my freezer and take the cash on the counter. If you could be so kind as to check and make sure I haven't had a heart attack or gone into a diabetic coma, that'd be great. If you're too busy to check on me, no big deal...the Schwann's man will be here tomorrow.

Sincerely,
America