I'm in the process of proving to myself that I am not a Dr. Pepper addict.
It struck me last weekend when we were camping how much Dr. Pepper I was drinking.
You probably know how it is. You're driving a long distance. You stop to eat at a fast food restaurant where the combo-meal fountain drinks are the size of a small child's swimming pool.
And then you get a refill, too.
At the campsite, I was heading over to the cooler three times a day and pulling a can of Dr. Pepper out of the ice. I was on a buzz the whole time we were camping.
When we got home, I felt bloated and sugar-coated.
"I'm going to fast from pop for a week," I announced. My sister-in-law, the other Amy Sonnichsen, offered to join me in my restraint.
It has not been easy. Afternoon comes, the kids go down for their rests or naps, and I get an overwhelming urge to drink Dr. Pepper. Without it, I'm dragging. I'm lying on the sofa watching rodeo* on TV because I don't have energy to do anything else.
Tomorrow marks the end of my fast and I have the cans of Dr. Pepper in the refrigerator so that they'll be cold when I allow myself to indulge.
I'm not a Dr. Pepper addict, am I?
I'll let you decide.
*Yeah, that's right. Rodeo. Man vs. Bull. Bulls with names like "Whip Lash," "Gnash," and "Satan," up against men with first names like "Billy Joe" and "Jimmy Bob." I think I watch it because it's a completely different culture and I find that interesting.