I was giving a friend a ride up to a yoga conference last week (Shiva Rea by the way), and he climbs in my car at 6:20 in the morning and says “I’m surprised you drink that poison,” in regard to my Diet Coke sitting in the console.
First of all, it is 6:20 in the goddamn morning and way too early for food shaming, especially when I’m going out of my way to pick your ass up and drive you 100 miles. Second of all, along with corn syrup, hydrogenated oil, and gluten, apparently a fatwa has officially been issued against aspartame.
For some time now, I’ve been taking heat for the diet soda. Look, I know fake sugar is a deal with the devil. There is no free lunch. Studies. Cancer. The information isn’t exactly a secret.But there is something particularly crackish about Diet Coke. She’s got her hooks in me good. I reduce, but like a bad affair, I just can’t completely quit my acidic, chemically liquid lover. It’s not like it’s news to any of you that I’m deeply flawed. This is just another daily example.Until the peer pressure and social stigma force me to quit that diet slut, all you kombucha and coconut water sipping bitches can relax with the side eye. Enough with the food shaming sanctimony, because very few, if any of us, eat perfectly everyday. Those rigid freaks who do make super boring dinner companions. Though I am starting to know how a meat eater feels at a table full of vegetarians. In certain circles, I need to cover my Diet Coke can with a brown paper bag and take it to the alley.