I’ve
never truly given up anything for Lent.
To do without something that has been a constant in my adult life always
frightened me: Hell, if it was in my life it had to be something I either
needed or wanted, right? What possible
reason could there be for doing without?
According
to most of the sources I could find, here is the meaning of Lent:
To prepare for Easter by observing a period of fasting, repentance,
moderation
and spiritual discipline.
OK,
point taken: This year I’ll give Lent an honest effort. For years my close friends, my distant friends
on social media and who could forget, science (damn you, science) have been
warning me of the perils of drinking Diet Coca Cola, my beverage of
choice. ‘Diet Coke can be used to clean
the corrosion off of battery cables,’ they warned. ‘Diet Coke can be used to clean toilets,’
they advised. ‘Diet Coke can be used to
clean the bugs off of the front bumper of a car,’ they admonished. OK, OK; as I was saying before, this year
I’ll give it an honest effort.
The
first couple of hours of Day One without Diet Coke weren’t too difficult. My normal routine calls for two cups of
coffee before my morning run. Hopefully
the coffee would provide all the caffeine I needed to make it through the
day. For that day—the very first day of
Lent—that was the case: The caffeine in the coffee did the trick. However, when I got out of bed the next
morning all bets were off. I woke up
with a feint headache, blurred vision, a slight touch of vertigo (or perhaps it
was nausea; it was hard to distinguish) and a strong urge to go back to
sleep. Or die. If I didn’t know better I would have sworn I
was out late the night before throwing back one boilermaker after another at
the Cat’s Meow up until when the bartender called for Svend the 285-pound
Swedish bouncer to toss me out on my ass because I was creating a scene.
Those
first two cups of coffee didn’t seem to make a difference. Neither did my run on a windy 40-degree
morning that remedied many-a-hangover for me in the ‘80’s. Another mid-morning cup of coffee at the
office offered no relief. Neither did
the Tootsie Rolls, handful of salted almonds or White Chocolate Macadamia Nut
Clif Bar. Maybe a large plate of orange
chicken and rice for lunch would do the trick.
Then
again, maybe not. The Diet Coke
withdrawal pangs continued to go on. And
on and on.
And
on.
Tick,
tick, tick…
Time
seemed to pass by slower and slower.
Seconds seemed like minutes.
Minutes seemed like hours. Hours
seemed like days. If Father Time and
molasses were in a footrace, molasses would have lapped the old fart too many
times to count.
Speaking
of ‘count:’
Lent
lasts for 40 days. Forty loooong days. It’s
hard to describe the experience, other than to say I can now understand and
appreciate what someone with a nicotine addiction experiences when they try to
quit smoking or what someone with a running addiction experiences when they try
to take a rest day (don’t look at me—I’ve
run every day since November 1978 and if I ever miss a day I swear I’ll tear
your throat out and did I mention that running is a great stress reliever?).
Tick,
tick, tick…
Headache. Nausea.
Vertigo. Apathy. Anger. Frustration.
All caused by the absence of my good friend Diet Coke.
Tick,
tick, tick…
My
God; when will this end?
Giving
up Diet Coke for Lent proved to be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in
my entire life. And believe me, I know
the meaning of pain: I’ve had a root canal without the benefit of any
anesthetic, I’ve run 135 miles across Death Valley and I sat through an entire
performance of The Nutcracker in the
seventh grade less. But giving up Diet
Coke? Well, that’s just taking pain one
step too far.
Forty
days? Hell, I barely made it for 40
hours.
But
it certainly seemed like 40 days.
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