SODA ADDICTS ARE WORSE THAN THE COFFEE BUNCH

I have sunk to a new all-time low.

One recent Saturday, I went to the refrigerator to get my Diet Coke --
the morning nectar of women everywhere -- only to discover we were
out. The kids han been home all week and, finding no alternative
sodas, must have drunk all of mine.

Panicked, I rummaged in the back of the vegetable and meat drawers,
where I sometimes stash a few away from my foraging sons. Nothing.

This was serious. I'm not proud to admit this, but I need my Diet
Coke. Even though I don't like the taste all that much, I just have it
to keep my day on an even keel.

I wasn't always so dependent, I used to disdain Diet Coke, but my
friends kept offering it to me. "Just try one," they'd urge. Yet cans
of it everywhere -- at church fellowships, at work. "Here, have a sip
of mine." they'd say, luring me like the sirens of ancient mythology.

The seduction continued on television, in print, and even on street
corners where the vending machines glowed brightly in the night.

I withheld as long as I could, but finally, I grew weak. I couldn't
resist the constant temptation. After drinking a few, I began to buy
them in qualitative -- first the six-pack, then the 12-pack, and now,
thanks to the ever-obliging supplier, 20-packs -- even though they
take a small forklift to transport. The supply must not dry up.

My place of work doesn,t have Coca-Cola products, due to a contractual
agreement. They have been stripped f9rom the vending machines, the
cafeterias andy the concession stands. There are several of us at
work who drink Diet Coke. The day they took away the last cans from
our office machines, we bade a solemn farewell.

We are the Diet Coke 'hood -- a stronger, more loyal sisterhood than
even the bonds of birth, career or parenthood create. We know each
other's numbers and phone extensions. We know there each keeps her
supply, If one of us inadvertently runs out, we seek the others out.
No sister in the 'hood would deny another.

When a well-meaning office mate sent around an e-mail about the
alleged health dangers of artificial sweeteners like the kind found in
diet sodas, we nearly ran her out of the office on a crushed aluminum
can rail.

Se there I was on that Saturday morning no Diet Coke. I seriously
considered rousing my 16-year-old son from bed to go to the store,
since I was fairly certain he had consumed a good portion of them.
But the repercussions form that hasty act would have been far worse
than the headache I was beginning to get from lack of caffeine. In
stead, I threw on some clothes, grabbed the car keys and drove to the
nearest store. I got a cold can from the vending machine outside the
store for immediate gratification and then went in to get a 12-pack
for later in the day.

I had sunk to this, making desperate runs to get my supply. And I
didn't even try to hide the fact by picking up a few other items just
to cover. Nope, jus Diet Coke. Give it to me straight.

So this is what I've come to. You see me on the soccer sideline,
aluminum can in had.

You see me during Sunday school, Bible in one hand, Diet Coke in the
other. You see me in the grocery store pushing a cart with a Diet Coke
in the little holder. You see crumpled cans on the floor of my min
ivan.

I console myself by noting that I could have worse vices. Actually, I
do. But then, that's another column -- or two.

Vicki Marsh Kabat writes for the Waco Tribune-Herald. email
VMKabab@aol.com