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The Trouble with Mountain Dew

10.25.09 | health | 13 Comments

It has been two months since I went off the sauce. It was pretty easy, this time. I was taking strong painkillers for the miscarriage, anyway, so it seemed a propitious time. (Also the number on the scale at the doctor’s was sufficiently humbling.)

But now, two months later, I crave Dew’s lemon meringue-y chemical sweetness more than my lover’s arms. I wake up fantasizing about that first cold slip down the throat, the pop and hiss as you open a can or the still-slightly-illicit-thrill of making an unnecessary stop at the gas station, genuflecting at that holy miracle, the soda fountain machine, from which pours the heavenliest of nectars, unceasingly.

My tooth hurts, my voice is ravaged from swine flu (Dick says I should cut back to one pack a day. Of swine? I ask.) I have a few projects on deadline and I’m still sad about my weight (and my baby, though this would be what they call an unpropitious time to be pregnant.)

Mountain Dew is the ultimate comfort. The shangri of my la, the pot of gold, the beautiful oblivion from all cares and curses. Maybe if I promise to start running every morning I can afford just one taste of bliss each day. Or what if I stop yelling? Swearing? Complaining about the basketball-sweaty socks strewn about my bedroom? Surely there is some indulgence I can trade for the sin I covet.

(And before you suggest diet Mountain Dew, don’t. It’s spectacularly disgusting. And, anyway, it’s the caffeine too, as well as the sugar. I see myself as someone just crunchy enough to despise artificial stimulants while keeping well under the doesn’t-use-toilet-paper true-granola barrier.)

totally unrelated, but fun to read

13 Comments


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