8 years later, the sweet, fizzy allure still tempts me | Jerry Davich

A female worker behind the counter gave me a cup and nodded toward the self-service machine. When I handed her my debit card, she waved it away. I looked up at the menu board to see the price of a large drink these days, more than $4.

“Seriously?” I asked the worker, who didn’t say a word.

While pouring a Diet Coke for my aunt, I thought of all the carbonated fountain drinks I’ve ordered in my life, a staggering amount spanning more than 50 years. Coke. Pepsi. Sprite. Dr. Pepper. Mr. Pibb. Fanta. Mountain Dew. Double Cola. Royal Crown. It’s an endless list of familiar names for me, dating back to the late 1960s.

Drinking soda pop, or as I call it, “pop,” was as natural to me as the human function of drinking. I never thought twice about ordering it at restaurants or buying it at stores. Pop was more a part of my life than water or milk or beer or booze or any other beverage. It was my go-to drink for almost every meal.

By my 20s and 30s, I was downing at least a dozen cans or bottles of Coca-Cola or Pepsi every week, in addition to quite a few fountain drinks at fast food joints. For a few years, I routinely made trips through McDonald’s drive-thru lanes to get my daily fix, some days multiple times if the line wasn’t too long.

I did it so often that workers often asked if I was a police officer, meaning they wouldn’t charge me. But I didn’t mind paying a buck each time for my liquid addiction: a large Coke with light ice.

I have no idea how much pop I consumed during the early decades of my life, but I’m sure it was more than the typical American who averages 42 gallons of soda consumption each year. 

Soda pop’s pervasive presence in our country — and in our lifestyles — is a result of cultural, historical, nostalgic and economic factors, all amplified by brilliant marketing schemes. We’re not only gulping a carbonated beverage. We’re guzzling the pop culture zeitgeist. We’re drinking America. We’re sipping our past.

In the 19th century, carbonated water was believed to have curative properties and proudly sold by pharmacists to heal whatever ailed you, like snake oil salesmen in the Old West. In the early 20th century, “soft” drinks were marketed as wholesome in comparison to “hard” liquor during the Prohibition era. Soda fountains replaced bars and taverns for a while.

In the 21st century, soda pop and related beverages are so entrenched in our lifestyles that we forget how addictive they've become. If you’re a regular consumer of it, try going for a week or two without a sip. It’s like you’re a junkie giving up heroin. But soda pop is legal, sold everywhere and relatively affordable.

I first had this realization eight years ago when I decided to kick my habit and stop drinking pop. For no reason beyond the obvious ones — cost, unhealthy and addictive properties — I quit drinking pop, cold turkey. That day was my “sobriety date,” a term used by alcoholics and addicts to mark the start of their recovery journey.

I was addicted to pop -- its taste, carbonation and sound while being poured over ice. It all rushed back to me as I poured that Diet Coke for my aunt at Popeyes. For a second, I was tempted to take a sip for old time's sake. Luckily, I never enjoyed diet drinks.

I still get tempted to drink pop, from TV commercials, online ads, grocery store sales and especially at restaurants when I order my meal. It took me months to get used to ordering water, which I hate to drink and never finish. I wish I enjoyed alcoholic drinks, for the taste if anything, but I don’t. Fortunately, I also don’t enjoy sports drinks, energy drinks, coffee, tea, wine or beer.

I've saved hundreds if not thousands of dollars over the past eight years by not buying soda pop. Nonetheless, the average cost for a fountain drink at restaurants is between $2 and $4, still low enough to entice recovering addicts like me.

I often forget I’m in recovery until something reminds me, like someone opening a bottle of pop and it makes that glorious fizzy sound that instantly teases my senses. Or when restaurants offer free refills of my favorite nectar of the gods. Or when I ask for a cup for water and I’m allowed to pour my own fountain drink at a self-service dispenser.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve looked around to see if anyone was watching in case I wanted to sneak a little pop into my water cup. Just for one more taste of my former life. Eight years later, it's still that powerful of a temptation.