Sharing my passion for Pepsi

This blog isn't working out the way I thought it would.  I anticipated that the public-at-large would read my witty ramblings and become immediately enraptured by my words.  Instead, I am misinterpreted at every turn; made to look selfishly narcissistic and petty.  Take today, for instance.  Suffering as I was in the sweltering summer heat of Western New York, I convinced my husband to take me for a little drive to escape the high-in-the-70s degree weather.  A mere twenty-two minutes later, I casually directed him into the grocery store parking lot. "Isn't it funny how we coincidentally made it to the nearest Pepsi distribution center," I observed in astonishment, before leaping fearlessly out of our still-moving-vehicle to race into Tops.  Some people have a knack for spying the prize pineapple, others knock confidently on their cantaloupe choices, a gentle squeeze reveals the plumpest of firm tomatoes while I exhibit the amazing ability of consistently selecting the bubbliest of Pepsis.

With my prize-winning Pepsi in hand, I returned to my chauffeur, I mean, husband, waiting patiently in the parking lot of our climate-controlled van with the radio set to my favorite station.  I have sang sonnets, authored essays and performed an intricate interpretive dance number extolling the virtues of that first sip of Pepsi from a freshly opened twenty ounce bottle.  I wish I could replicate that sound for you but it defies the limitations of the written language.  The resistant release of the twist cap, the mist rising magically from the depths of the carbonated potion, microscopic bubbles tickling your nose as the cool liquid hydrates parched lips. Your taste-buds no longer tolerate the flavor of complacency as the nectar of hope floods the desert plains of your arid mouth.  My mere words are woefully insufficient.  The experience eludes description.

As always, I graciously opened the Pepsi and, like the king's mythical taster, selflessly took the first sip to spare Brad the possibility of carbonated overflow.  I then handed the frosty beverage to my beloved spouse to quench his thirst.  "I see you took the first sip, as usual," he remarked, less than graciously, I thought, as he accepted my generous offering.  I nodded, somewhat confused. I had never heard my husband wax poetic about Pepsi.  In fact, the only time he ever drinks a Pepsi is when he shares mine.  I considered this latest quandary.  Perhaps Brad wasn't referencing that literal act of taking the first sip but was actually referring to the symbolic ritual of pure pleasure associated with the grand opening.  Enough of us have had to consume the dregs to understand that the best life has to offer resides at the top. Why should he have to ask for it to be offered?  I'm a changed woman, mark my words!  Next time, I'll get Brad a whole Pepsi of his own!