B. A martyr
C. Seeking sainthood
Possibly. No. Get real.
This was one more woefully misguided decision, the kind in which I seem to specialize. You see, I love Coke more than socks and depend on it to survive this relentlessly unforgiving world. It’s the sweetest part of my day. Or was. It’s gone now and I’m suffering. Bigly.
For many years, the Lenten sacrifice was a no-brainer; I gave up God annually. Seemed only fair, you know? God gave up on me decades ago and for no good reason, either. Without warning or notice, the Dude closed the door, turned off the lights, and stopped taking my calls. But kept right on sending regular painful reminders of his disenchantment with me and my shenanigans. Broken bones, exploding organs, financial disasters, social failure, loss, deprivation, catastrophe, mayhem, and misery rained down.
No frogs, no locusts or boils, just an endless smorgasbord of crushing adversity. In the end, I was, for all intents and purposes, wiped out. I’d nothing left to lose and I was pissed. So, you know me, I had to thumb my nose; I cannot and will not allow a grievance to pass without a childish response. It’s a biological imperative.
Then something strange happened. After eleven long years in the crosshairs, the calamities stopped, the sun came out, and I rose from the smoking smithereens like a zombie from the Apocalypse — blinking and dazed and unsteady. I’ll be honest, I was more than a little proud. I’d taken direct hit after direct hit, been battered and walloped and left for dead. Except I wasn’t. I still have breath and a smart mouth that will inevitably lead to more trouble.
In an effort to forestall the, by-now, tiresome and predictable consequences, I decided to give up one of the Top Five most precious things in my world. My beloved Coca-Cola. Like any addict, I’m taking things one day at a time. There are seventeen of them yet ahead, hundreds of hours, each one of them an agonizing test of endurance.
Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going outside to fall off my bike. The recovery will keep me distracted well past Easter — if the past is anything to go by.
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