There are innumerable ways to cope with the particular malaise of job burnout. Some people do spa treatments, others prefer the endless scroll of TikTok, but personally, I turn to unfettered capitalism. There is no work stress that I cannot numb under the bright lights of a Target, staring at a KitchenAid mixer as if it could fix me.
More recently, my burnout salve has been pining for tasty treats at high-end grocery stores. I’ll convince myself that the hit of dopamine I’ll get from a bar of peppermint pretzel Dubai dark chocolate will transport me from the daily pressure of doing three people’s jobs into a magical land of socialist work-life balance. Over the last year, I’ve dissociated myself into purchasing “gourmet” instant ramen (tasted prepackaged), a cheese platter containing six kinds of vegan manchego (delicious), and a giant lollipop with Hello Kitty’s face on it (remains uneaten).
But I recently moved back to my hometown, which lacks fancy grocery stores. So now I push my cart at a snail’s pace around a Kroger, while hoping I’ll at least find an unexpected new potato chip flavor. It was on one of these trips that I caught myself gazing into a freezer case desiring a new novelty: Rice Krispies Treat Ice Cream Sandwiches.
My interest in such a product defied logic; I am lactose intolerant. But the thing about being in a burnout haze is that it suspends all notions of “sense” and “impending gastrointestinal doom.” So naturally, I purchased the Rice Krispies Treat Ice Cream Sandwiches in strawberry.
At home, I bit into this brick of frozen sugar and cream flanked by rice and barely noticed the ice cream’s strawberry sweetness. I was too distracted by what sandwiched it: two soggy crackers that had presumably once been a cereal. To assure me that I had not simply chomped on an unsalted Ritz, this concoction was also covered in sprinkles that had melted into the rice they were meant to dress up. But these sprinkles looked less like they were ready for a party and more like they’d just returned from one, having had a blowout fight with their boyfriend and walked home, heels in hand, with a mascara-streaked face.
Which might be fine if the strawberry ice cream was doing any of the heavy lifting in this underwhelming pannino. It functions well enough. But does it compensate for the wet napkin of a “sandwich”?
After my initial two bites and immediate regret, I laid my mutant frozen sandwich aside to ask more existential questions: Who exactly was clamoring for this? Were consumers mindlessly going through life, unaware of the joys they’ve been missing without mid strawberry ice cream and Rice Krispies goo with the mouthfeel of a waterlogged communion wafer? Were there so many people abysmally strung out by their jobs that they dissociated themselves into the ice cream aisle even though their bodies hadn’t processed dairy since the 2008 financial crisis?
The executives behind this unholy collaboration don’t seem to know, either. In a press release announcing this mashup no one needed (which they released simultaneously with an Eggo ice cream sandwich, because who doesn’t love their waffles frozen?), they stated, “This collaboration allows us to combine our strengths in innovation and quality to create more delicious, convenient products for families. Together, we’ll continue to drive growth and introduce new offerings to meet the evolving needs of consumers,” which is a long, empty way of saying that this “innovation” is made specifically to tempt people like me in the fog of overworked depression.
But was I perhaps going too hard on these sweets that simply wanted, in the words of their makers, to be “delicious, convenient products for families”? I needed to know. So I offered them to my friend’s darling daughters who, like perfect angels with discerning taste, proceeded to absolutely roast me for thinking of such a thing as food. Miraculously, two unrelated things happened soon after: The kids ate cantaloupe instead, and I found a new job.
