Seeking Perfection

I love to hate and hate to love diet soda. A bubbling foam teases at the top of the bottle; a high pitched scream of liberation lets loose as the bottle is first opened, bubbles prepared to explode and excite the taste buds—they dance and pop making a faint noise, almost as faint as the scent: a scent that can only be described as “artificial sweetness” that is truly only appreciated by those who drink it regularly. On first taste, the zest of lemon is overpowered by an unnamed, unknown, indescribably sweet flavor that in turn is only overpowered by the rich carbonation that floods every crevice of the mouth. Even holding the bottle is a rush: condensation forms just around the fingertips so fingers slide easily over the even, symmetrical curves. The curves are perfect. The entire experience feels perfect.

It is most perfect after walking four miles in the heat of a Minnesota summer wearing several layers of clothing—in part because it slakes the thirst, in part because it embodies my secret: it hides it and exposes it to the world all at once. The bottle may be on display in public when I go out, but that is all anyone sees. No one sees the private exercise sprees, the diet pills, the agony over those next five pounds, the glorious giggles when collarbones finally begin to protrude. No one would want to see any of these things from the girl who is always so put together and ready to take on the world. No one wants to see a human befriend an inanimate object. Pop another top and let them believe what they want.

And they certainly want the world: perfect grades, attendance, ACT scores, balance beam scores, play performances, speech scores—everything. Everything constantly slides and changes, but there is always a cold soda waiting somewhere to be opened, embraced, enjoyed. It is my secret friend in whom I can…not confide, but drown: I can drown in the copper liquid and rise refreshed in the bubbles. I can share my woes without a word and be…not understood, but physically comforted, like a warm, familiar blanket or an old melody that brings back fond memories. It is my unguilty pleasure: no calories to drag me down into my fears. No voice to cry out to others of my secret.

Of course, it is not perfect; that would be too good to be true. I feel comforted and content while the bottle is full—even half full, even almost empty. But when it is empty, I am empty. The subtle aroma that seemed present just for me dissipates. The bubbles that enraptured me cannot be recovered. There is still no food in my belly, and there is no longer anything to distract me from this fact. There is no one to whom I can turn with this secret. It is an illusion: it has taste but no nourishment; grants desires but leaves no substantial memory; it keeps my secret but gives no lasting comfort. The empty bottle mocks me. The bottle in itself has not changed in its perfect shape: it still has the slender curves, the shiny wrapper with the logo that some slick marketing executive created. It stands tall and strong, as if it realizes its power.

However, plastic is easily molded and shaped—a soda bottle can easily be deformed, and indeed is crushed in my own hand. It still stands upright, bent to one side at the neck. No longer does it appear perfect or even appealing. But the desire of familiarity, comfort, and momentary temporal bliss takes over; I am in search of another Diet Coke.