Then a week or so ago I couldn't resist the urge to grab a can of relatively cold diet root beer. It was unsatisfactory. But I was happy knowing I had made the right decision. Substituting diet for the sweet sparkling sustinence that is Coca-Cola Classic is a travesty of taste. And high fructose corn syrup is just bad for you. So . . . I carried on in my Coke-free existence.
Today it ended. We had friends over for lunch, broke out a two-liter of Pepsi, and I didn't partake. Heather said they should just take the bottle home with them, since no one in this house would be drinking it. They didn't take it home. And Heather was wrong.
There I was. All alone in the living room. I picked up the two-liter bottle. Still cold. I twisted open the bottle cap and immediately smelled a mixture of caramel and indulgence. The wait was over. Sure, it was Pepsi, which meant the payoff was just a bit too sweet, but sweet nonetheless. The dark cool waves of sin danced across my tongue and cascaded down my tingling throat. It was wonderful. What made the transgression even more gratifying was the fact that I was chugging out of a big ol' two-liter. It was just wrong for all the right reasons.
I'm not worried about going back. I know I'm not going back. I still don't drink pop, and I'm committed to that. It was just a necessary reminder that I didn't just give up on diet, bubbly, mineral-tasting pop. I gave up the good stuff. Kidding myself into thinking I don't really like pop is a joke. I love Coke. And if I can go through life without drinking that, there's no limit towhat I cannot do.
Still . . . yummy.