Besides the caffeine, they appeared to make no difference in how good or bad I felt at all. But the diet sodas had not, as it turns out, been preventing me from getting great sleep or calming my rosacea or feeling, I don’t know, zesty. I still stick to seltzer anyway-because, you know, who knows?-and I’ve mostly forgotten that Diet Coke exists. Seven years later, I feel no better than I ever did drinking four or five cans of the stuff a day. I switched to seltzer on the spot, prepared to join the smug converted and receive whatever health benefits were sure to accrue to me for my good behavior.Įxcept they never came. After years of turning my nose up at the thought of LaCroix, I realized that much of what I enjoyed about Diet Coke was its frigidity and fizz. Then I tried my first can of unsweetened seltzer at a friend’s apartment. Yet I’d loved my DCs too much to be swayed. I’d also heard whispers about the larger suspected d angers of fake sweeteners. For years, I’d heard anecdotes about people who forsook diet drinks and felt their health improve seemingly overnight-better sleep, better skin, better energy. You’d think quitting would have been agonizing. A few years later, my then-boyfriend swathed two 12-packs in wrapping paper and put them under his Christmas tree. When I moved into my freshman college dorm, the first thing I did was stock my mini fridge with cans. Every morning in high school, I’d slam one with breakfast, and then I’d make sure to shove some quarters (a simpler time) in my back pocket to use in the school’s vending machines. I was born and raised in suburban Atlanta, home to the Coca-Cola Company’s global headquarters, and I had never lived in a home without Diet Coke stocked in the refrigerator at all times.
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