![]() In late June, after polishing off my second can of the day, pains shot across my stomach, and that was my last soda. There was a malignant aftertaste I’d never noticed before I could imagine the chemicals swirling around in my stomach, targeting my insides. At around the same time, I began noticing that my beloved brew was starting to taste like I imagine a Tide pod would. ![]() CT scans, ultrasounds and a colonoscopy turned up nothing. The left side of my abdomen had been throbbing for months, but doctors were unable to figure out the problem. (Yes, it’s a thing.) I drank with vigor until earlier this year, when two things happened almost simultaneously. No plastic bottles, fountain soda or diet coke cake. I loved my fully loaded D.C., and only in the silver-and-red can, so I could hear that Pavlovian pop when I cracked it open. ![]() And let’s be clear: Caffeine-free soda is pointless. Kombucha, La Croix, Zevia? Nothing satisfied my cravings. As a non-coffee drinker, it was my morning beverage. ![]() Who stashed cans in her room when she visited her parents, like an 18-year-old with a bong, except she was in her 40s.Īt various times I tried to stop, but I could never deprive myself for longer than a week. Who bought out an entire store’s inventory in New Delhi because she feared she might not encounter another soda in the rest of the country. I was the person who avoided certain airlines because they only served Pepsi. After I discovered Diet Coke in 1982, I drank at least three to four 12-ounce cans nearly every day for the next four decades, no matter where in the world I was. ![]()
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