Big Gulp

I’ve joked before that my basic religious affiliation is membership in the Church of 7-Eleven.  My attendance there has been more regular than anywhere else.  The liturgical plastic cup runneth over with caffeine and sugar.

I’ve kicked the habit before.  I am an expert at it.  I know that within a week I can taper down my caffeine dependence and begin the process of replenishing all the sleep I’ve been missing.  Excedrin is my friend, or at least my version of methadone.

It’s not just a habit, however.  The Big Gulp, the crack habit, is more than just an unfortunate dietary choice codified into normality.  It’s a ritual.  I found, just now, that one aspect of ritual, according to the experts, is that it is intended as a method of coping with anxiety.

No wonder I have been such a faithful servant.  I have a black belt in anxiety, I’m afraid.  Even the times when I have rebelled against the ritual have had their own ritual significance as controlled expressions of discontent that ultimately reinforce the status quo:  I always returned from my little health vacations convinced that maybe in a perfect world I could do without the cup, but in real life not so much.

I’ve had enough.  This particular religion oppresses me, keeps me from growing.  Apostasy, in this case, is good for health, environmental preservation, and economic stability.

And then I will need to leave the Church of Monday Night Football.