An Oath

I'm having a hard time with the financial restraint involved with unemployment.

Since I stepped foot off the plane last night, I've blown many dollars on many unnecessary things. Take jalapeno margaritas, for example. Three of them. A wise man would have purchased a full bottle of tequila and infused it with jalapenos in the comfort of his own, frugal home. Isn't it more satisfying to get drunk off of your own infusion, anyway? 

Tonight, Pat Pillar, my mentor from the other side of the unemployed tracks, critiqued my purchase of a few scoops of gelato for a few friends. "Uh, shouldn't you not spend money... like that?" 

Old habits die hard, especially when it involves velvety, cold, flavorful Hola, Bonita gelato. But he was right. I was being foolish. I'm in exile from a land of ice cream truck songs and triple-scoop camaraderie, and I need to start spending like it. So from here on, I pledge an oath of gelato celibacy. No gelato for me; no gelato for anyone else around me, from me. But... please, give me a bite of yours. 

Pat Pillar, in the midst of an art history infatuation, told me about this museum up, way up there on the New York City map, called The Cloisters, an architecturally monastic museum. In light of my gelato oath, a trip there tomorrow would only be appropriate. 

Suggested donation: the money I would have otherwise spent on something delicious and insensible.