Every two months, I allow myself a splurge day where I eat thick

Host: The evening light poured through the café window like syrup — slow, golden, indulgent. The smell of vanilla and baked sugar clung to the air, wrapping around the faint jazz playing through the speakers. The city outside moved in its usual rhythm — fast, metallic — but inside, time melted sweetly.

The café was famous for its desserts — glass jars of candy, trays of cupcakes, bowls of marshmallows stacked like childhood on display.

Jack sat at a corner table, sleeves rolled, tie undone, staring down at a pizza box and a melting sundae beside it — a tableau of contradictions: guilt and joy sharing a plate.

Jeeny arrived late, as always, a gust of laughter and warmth, carrying two spoons and no apologies. She sat across from him, her brown eyes lighting up at the sight of all that unapologetic comfort.

She read aloud, smiling like she was already tasting the words:

“Every two months, I allow myself a splurge day where I eat thick, doughy pizza from Pizzeria Uno or an ice cream sundae from my store with birthday-cake ice cream, Marshmallow Fluff, and toppings mixed in.” — Dylan Lauren.

Jack chuckled, leaning back.

Jack: “You’d think she was describing religion, not dessert.”

Jeeny: “In a way, she is. This is modern prayer — indulgence followed by forgiveness.”

Host: The sundae glass caught the fading sunlight, the colors swirling into a kaleidoscope of joy. Jeeny reached for a spoon, Jack for cynicism.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? We live in a world where even joy needs scheduling. One ‘splurge day’ every two months, like happiness’s allowed on parole.”

Jeeny: “Oh, don’t start. It’s called balance.”

Jack: “No, it’s called guilt with good branding.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound tragic. It’s not guilt — it’s gratitude. You savor more when you wait.”

Jack: “So deprivation makes dessert poetic.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Otherwise it’s just sugar.”

Host: The rain began outside — faint, rhythmic — painting streaks across the window. The café lights flickered, and for a moment, the whole world looked edible.

Jeeny scooped a spoonful of ice cream, the Fluff stretching between spoon and glass like silk.

Jeeny: “You know, I admire her discipline. The idea that pleasure is something you earn, not just stumble into.”

Jack: “That’s the problem. We’ve turned pleasure into a business plan. You need permission to enjoy your own life.”

Jeeny: “You think indulgence should be constant?”

Jack: “I think we should stop worshipping restraint like it’s virtue. What’s the point of living if everything worth tasting comes with an apology?”

Jeeny: “Because too much of anything — even pleasure — dulls you.”

Jack: “Maybe. But too little makes you forget what joy feels like.”

Host: The steam from the pizza curled between them — the smell of garlic, melted cheese, and unspoken arguments. Jeeny took a slice, careful not to burn her fingers. Jack watched her, amusement flickering behind the sarcasm.

Jeeny: “You know, there’s something honest about this quote. It’s indulgence without shame. ‘I allow myself a splurge day,’ she says. Not I fail, not I cheat. Just I live.”

Jack: “But see, that’s still control disguised as rebellion. Real indulgence is messy, impulsive — not penciled into a calendar.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But self-control doesn’t ruin joy. It protects it. Like art — if you overuse the canvas, the colors lose meaning.”

Jack: “You’ve turned pizza into philosophy.”

Jeeny: smiling “Everything worth having becomes philosophy when you stop rushing it.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, tapping the glass like applause for the argument. Jack leaned forward, his voice softer now, the edge in it blunted by the warmth of melted cheese and memory.

Jack: “You ever think about how childhood was one long splurge day? We didn’t think about calories or guilt or balance. We just lived.”

Jeeny: “Because we didn’t know better.”

Jack: “Or maybe we knew best — that joy wasn’t something to earn, it was something to feel without asking.”

Jeeny: “Then what happened?”

Jack: “We grew up and made pleasure conditional. We called it adulthood.”

Jeeny: “No, we called it awareness. The price of being alive and responsible.”

Jack: “So adulthood’s just rationed happiness.”

Jeeny: “No — it’s measured happiness. There’s a difference.”

Host: The café was nearly empty now. The waiter swept quietly in the corner, the clink of dishes fading like polite applause.

Jeeny set her spoon down, watching the last streak of sundae melt into cream.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Dylan Lauren’s quote isn’t about food at all. It’s about permission. She’s saying it’s okay to want, even in a world that glorifies control.”

Jack: “Permission to feel good. Once every sixty days.”

Jeeny: “Don’t twist it, Jack. It’s not about frequency — it’s about acknowledgment. She built an empire on joy — candy, ice cream, color. Her ‘splurge day’ is a ritual of self-kindness.”

Jack: “So sugar as therapy.”

Jeeny: “No — as celebration. You can’t live your whole life in discipline. You’ll starve your spirit.”

Jack: “And you can’t live in constant celebration either. You’ll lose the point.”

Jeeny: “Which is why balance is beautiful. Because it means we can have both — effort and ease, control and chaos.”

Jack: “And pizza.”

Jeeny: laughing “And pizza.”

Host: The rain had stopped. The streetlights outside reflected on the puddles, turning the world into a mirror of soft gold.

Jack leaned back, finally taking a slice for himself.

Jack: “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe the discipline is part of the pleasure. Maybe we need the wait to taste the reward.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The contrast defines the sweetness. You can’t feel joy in constant daylight.”

Jack: “You ever notice you make everything sound profound?”

Jeeny: “You ever notice you only think things are profound when they threaten your cynicism?”

Jack: “Touché.”

Host: She smiled, eyes bright, holding her spoon like a toast.

Jeeny: “Here’s to balance then — and to the sacred art of splurging.”

Jack: “You know, that’s not a bad religion.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only one that guarantees dessert.”

Host: The camera would linger as they laughed — the half-eaten pizza, the nearly empty sundae glass, two people suspended in that perfect middle ground between guilt and delight.

Outside, the world went on — gray, hurried, disciplined — but inside, for one small, glowing moment, there was nothing but warmth and sugar and laughter.

Because Dylan Lauren was right —
joy doesn’t have to transform you. It just has to feed you.

And sometimes, the holiest thing you can do is let yourself have the damn sundae.