My last day at work, in June 2022, was supposed to be low-key. That was fine. I was retiring after 32 years as a school librarian, a momentous event for me, but I’d already had a lovely send-off party and had been recognized with other retirees at three events.

I had a few hours to tie up loose ends in an eerily quiet building (students had left for the summer). My husband, Paul, was coming to help me lug out a few boxes, and then we’d head off for a mini-celebration: ice cream cones.

Of course, I felt a bit melancholy. I was looking forward to retirement, but this last day was still bittersweet. Hence, the ice cream. It always cheers me up. It also seemed important to mark the day somehow.

So we headed off to a popular local stand. Though summer had officially begun, it was cloudy, breezy and not very warm. Did I care? No. I was ready for ice cream. This would be our first foray out for the cold stuff that season.

I scanned the menu eagerly, and decided on something that involved chocolate, candy chips and maybe cookie bits. I was greedy, but knew I’d better order the smallest cone. My appetite and stomach are small, and experience had taught me that even a medium was too much for me.

When we got our cones, they looked delicious — but huge. Even Paul, who is 6 feet tall and has a healthy appetite, was aghast. He had ordered a bigger size than me, but not “gargantuan.”

We looked at each other with dismay. The cones were already starting to drip. Simple physics was at work. There was too much ice cream for the teensy-tiny sugar cones. The scoops were ready to capsize.

Luckily, we keep picnic supplies in the car. Leaving Paul to hold the cones at arm’s length, I ran to retrieve paper towels and paper plates. We managed to get the dripping cones on the plates, but we couldn’t avoid getting a few smears on our clothes.

Meanwhile, the wind picked up. A paper towel floated off. Paul chased it.

We sat at a picnic table and made the best of our mess. Paul ended up throwing part of his away.

By the time we headed home, we were able to laugh about it. Sort of. I was determined not to let it ruin my special day, even though changing my clothes and putting stain remover on the ice cream spots was not exactly how I wanted to spend the rest of the afternoon.

Oh, well. It was done. My summer was beginning. My new life was beginning. I gave it no more thought until our next ice cream outing a couple of weeks later.

There they were again, at a different location — plus-size scoops in puny cones.

I had an aha moment. This was a trend. I should have known. It was a manifestation of the out-of-control portion sizes of which Americans are so fond.

It’s a problem for me whenever I eat out. Too much food. Yes, I can bring leftovers home, but sometimes what I’m eating isn’t something that’s going to be great the next day. Sometimes, I can cajole Paul into splitting a meal, to avoid buying two. This doesn’t usually work, because he is bigger and hungrier than I.

I often end up getting a small starter, like a cup of chowder, as an entrée because that’s a normal serving size to me.

Now I had to change how I ordered at ice cream stands. I had to have a petite serving in a bowl. It might still be too much for me, but at least it wouldn’t end up on my lap.

It wasn’t always this way in America. I visited the local creamery with my family weekly in the summer as a kid in the 1960s and ’70s. I don’t remember any drippy disasters. The cones were reasonably sized and could be licked into oblivion without a mess, even on the hottest days.

The difference in portion sizes for hamburgers, French fries and sodas has been amply documented by comparison photographs, not to mention actual measurements. I am not just dreaming of better days. I think the portion size explosion in American restaurants started in the 1980s. Not surprisingly, that’s also when obesity rates went up.

Perhaps the greatest example of “then and now” occurred for me while I was watching one of the “Poirot” episodes, starring David Suchet. Hercule and his associates, who are solving a case in a seaside town, sit down on a bench, with ice cream cones. They are enjoying modest, well-shaped scoops. Nothing is falling. Nothing is dripping. It is 1937, well before my time, but it is still the ice cream cone of my childhood.

I have often found in life that “more” does not necessarily mean “better.” Small can be good. How much ice cream do we really need to eat at one sitting?

I am not seeking a ban on huge ice cream cones, although that might have a positive effect on Americans’ health. I would just like to be able to buy a “baby” cone that lives up to its name — small and sweet.

Most of all, I’d like to be able to enjoy a little celebration without wearing it home.

Liz Soares welcomes email at lizzie621@icloud.com