I kicked this habit to the curb last year. Two weeks of miserable, I hate my life headaches, and I most certainly should have achieved a lifetime achievement award. At least I thought so as the acceptance speech played in my head on repeat. My husband, on the other hand, threatened to move all of my belongings to the garage and enjoy life, drama free.
We made it through for the better (mostly) and unscathed (barely).
This past year I would indulge sporadically, savoring every last drop from that aluminum wonder. Every now and then I might have had to hide the evidence of a splurge. I uncovered the definite advantage of working in two buildings. No one would be the wiser in the afternoon if I ever snuck a can in the morning and vice versa. Now, I did manage to keep a reign on the binge sessions. I didn’t ever buy it for the house and I didn’t ever buy it for work. Coincidentally, the change in my car insisted on mysteriously disappearing. There is currently an APB out for a somewhat tall, slightly stressed, crazy eyed woman spotted frantically scrounging underneath the floor mats of my car.
Since I have been the queen of my rehabilitation, how is it then, when I run through my day yesterday, am I able to count 6 (SIX?!?!) servings of liquid loveliness? To where could I place blame?
Seems I might not have kicked the habit as well as I thought I might.