Sharon Randall: Confessions of a diet-soda fiend
This is a story Iíll probably file with others I call ěPrivate things I should not have made public,î or ěConfessions of a woman who ought to have had better sense.î
Iím going to tell it for two reasons: First, because, well, itís what I do. And second, because I suspect youíve done something equally harebrained or maybe even dumber. The question is, will you admit it? Weíll see.
Before I tell you what I did, I should tell you why I did it.
Iím addicted to Diet Coke. Iím not proud of it, but we all have vices (yes, even you), and from what Iíve seen (I live in Las Vegas) I could do worse.
My addiction is such that I keep at all times one or more 12-packs stashed about the house: one in the fridge, others in a cupboard. If the cupboard is full (my husband hogs it for his bottled water), I leave them in the back of my car. They slide about on turns, a comforting swishy sound Iíve come to enjoy.
If the cupboard is bare (except for cursed bottles of water), I never panic. I know I can find a 12-pack in the back of my car, enough to tide me over until I go out and score another stash.
Thatís where this adventure begins. This morning I opened the cupboard, found it bare and went out to the garage to get a spare. It was early. My husband had just left for work. I was in my nightgown, not one youíd see on ěDesperate Housewives.î It was more like a ěbeforeî shot on an extreme-makeover show called ěPimp My Wife.î
Much to my dismay, someone (Iím not saying who) had parked my car too near the garage door. I could lift the hatchback, but not enough to reach in and pull out a big 12-pack of Diet Coke.
There were two obvious solutions. I could go in the house to get my keys, start the car and pull it forward just enough to lift open the back.
Too much trouble.
Or I could simply open the garage door and lift the hatchback, while exposing myself and my ratty nightgown to God, all his angels and the entire neighborhood.
Not a chance.
I devised a third plan that would later make my sister howl like a hyena, ěWere you high?î
No, I was not. I was in caffeine withdrawal, desperate for a fix.
So here is what I did. I lifted the hatchback as far as it would go, wedging it up against the garage door, and proceeded to squeeze through the opening.
It wouldíve worked just fine, if not for one thing. Or two things, if you count my rear end.
In the process of squeezing through the opening, I somehow rolled the car forward a bit, so the hatchback dropped an inch and became wedged beneath a ridge on the garage door.
So there I was, half in, half out, stuck between a hatchback and a 12-pack of Diet Coke.
I tried backing out, tried rocking the car, tried everything I could think of. It would be hours before my husband got home. I pictured the look on his face as he opened the garage to see the lower half of my lifeless body dangling from my car.
I didnít bother to yell for help. No one could possibly hear me. If they did, the house was locked. Theyíd call 911 and Iíd end up on the evening news (ěWoman trapped in ratty nightgown, film at 11!î)
Finally, I did what I always do when all else fails: I prayed.
Nothing happened. My grandmother used to say God waits to answer prayers to give fools time to think about how we got ourselves in such a fix.
I thought long and hard, which isnít easy when youíre all bent over and stuck. Finally, it came to me. I knew what I had to do.
I wiggled up in the back of the car, climbed over the seat, got the Diet Coke, whispered, ěThank you, God,î and went inside.
When you find yourself stuck with no clear way out, you need to move forward, not back.
Thatís my story.
Contact Sharon Randall at P.O. Box 777394, Henderson NV 89077, or visit her website, www.sharonrandall.com.
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