Scientific discoveries are taking the fizz out of life
They say life has a symmetry to it.
Or, at least, I think they say that. Come to think of it, I’m not really sure.
But it sounds nice, doesn’t it? Rather than a disconnected set of events, randomly tossed in our faces, isn’t it comforting, if not downright poetic, to think that life is themed? That seemingly innocuous events of long ago find their way back to us late in the game, allowing us a final ironic chuckle as we tie up our lives with a neat little bow?
I’m drawing solace from that notion, while contemplating the prospect of my demise.
Sounds like a done deal for me: death in a 12-ounce can.
The first messenger was an office mate. Then, within the hour, my sister. Both alerted me to a Times story this week connecting a can of soda a day to a 48% increased risk of metabolic syndrome. The syndrome is a cluster of symptoms that you don’t want to have, because they’re indicators of people with increased risk of heart disease and diabetes.
Rats.
A can a day? I’ll polish off two before this column is finished.
Well, why don’t you just quit, you knucklehead?
Well, me and soda pop go way back. Probably too far back to quit each other now. I got introduced to them as a boy in the tiny Nebraska town of Marquette. An 8-ounce Coke cost a dime, and it’s hard to imagine today that that kind of money once was hard to come by. The steep price made Coke a luxury purchase, on a level with the 12 cents needed to snag a package of Hostess cupcakes.
I realize that sounds like I grew up in pioneer days and plowed fields with oxen, but those of you who grew up without change in your pockets will remember that finding 10 cents wasn’t all that easy.
Ah, but when you did. Talk about nursing a drink. You could make those 8 ounces last an hour -- given the price, you had to -- sipping it in the way that connoisseurs handle a fine wine. Walking the railroad tracks or just heading for the outskirts of town, Coke in hand, made for a pretty good day back then.
Freedom, baby.
Thing is, never heard a word about metabolic syndrome.
We moved into the big city of Omaha when I was 12 and for a time lived off an alley near downtown. The key establishment was the B&F; Liquor store on the corner, where Abe Feldman had a cooler full of sodas. I think RC Cola was the beverage of choice then, or maybe it was just a phase.
But I still wasn’t in the tall cotton, so finding the dime for an RC was no mean feat. Not to mention that having 10 cents in your pocket posed a dilemma: soda or comic book.
Such is the stuff of gauzy boyhood memories, unfettered by health considerations.
Now, every Pepsi represents a tick of the clock. When I buy one in our cafeteria, the friendly cashier almost always shakes her head and says, “¡Azucar!” She’s trying to help, but asking me how many that is for the day doesn’t really help. I ask her to quit selling them to me, but that’s not what she’s getting paid for.
Friends visited recently and noted how clean my apartment was, except for the half-dozen empty 20-ounce Pepsi bottles on the floor. Oh, those, I said. I suggested they’d collected over the months, prompting my guests to quickly inspect the expiration dates and catch me in a white lie.
In light of the metabolic syndrome news, those empty bottles might as well represent six spent cartridges.
The story this week said that those who drank a soda a day -- regular or diet -- also had greater risks of obesity, expanding waistline, high blood sugar, high blood pressure and bad cholesterol levels.
The study’s lead author said other research has shown that soda drinkers tend to have diets higher in calories and fats and lower in fiber.
Guilty, guilty, guilty.
I’ve known for a long time there’s no redeeming value in soda pop. I tell myself that tomorrow is the day I quit.
It’s my forbidden fruit, I guess. The thing that my memory associates with hard-to-get boyhood pleasures. The thing that I once could not have, but now can have whenever I want.
And now, the one thing I coveted as a kid is a marker for the end game.
Ain’t life a hoot?
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Dana Parsons’ column appears Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. He can be reached at (714) 966-7821 or at
dana.parsons@latimes.com. An archive of his recent columns: www.latimes.com/parsons
