When I first set eyes on you in the third-floor refrigerator, my heart skipped a beat.

Wow! A flavor of La Croix that I have never seen before! What marvel! What majesty! Bacchus blessed us with peaches and pears. G. Heileman Brewing Company gifted us with the less pretentious version of Perrier, yet here I am feeling like the Father John Misty of seltzer water. Fate interwound G. Heileman Brewing Company and Bacchus’s gifts to create modern day ambrosia, I mused.

Believing my life to have changed for the better, I opened the $2,000 Frigidaire glass door fridge to grab the nectar of the gods. The La Croix was on the first shelf, so I had to lean down to grab it, knowing that I was working for my happiness. I grabbed the pull-tab with my forefinger and thumb, putting a lot of effort to get my pointer finger under there, due to my lack of nails from social anxiety.

“Maybe my anxiety will subside as my enjoy more Peach-Pear La Croix and I can grow my nails out and open pull tabs all the time!” I internally exclaimed.

Externally, the office sat silently. The night shift had begun. The awkward loners, not including myself, sat hunched over their computers, afraid to enjoy their existence and the free beverages provided to us. These free beverages kept the office morale up. Due to recent budgeting issues involving the CEO's third vacation home, our deductibles increased, preventing me from getting the Prozac my body so desperately needed. This Peach-Pear La Croix was truly the panacea for which my body cried out.

Would this panacea cure everything? Yes. I entrusted my fate in this can, feeling as if I was Alice about to enter Wonderland.

I put the can to my mouth and took a large gulp.

I’ve only dry heaved at my office once and that was because Kelly microwaved a hot dog. Kelly, who unironically auditioned for The Bachelor, which says more about her than anything I could say, would probably like this and call it, “a tasty low-cal treat.” Or if she felt like bragging for studying Classics in college, “ambrosia.”

Nectar of the god, my ass. The worst fucking flavor I have ever experienced. This is honest to god the worst flavor of La Croix. I drank a flat cran-raspberry at a frat party and there is no comparison in the shame that I felt imbibing peach-pear in a newly-renovated, open-concept office in downtown Nashville.

Shame.

Embarrassment.

Ignominy.

These are some words that come to mind when thinking about this horrific incident and not just because I used a thesaurus to find synonyms for shame.

I have never felt so let down by a beverage, minus that time on St. Patrick’s Day 2017 when I tried brandy. It was real fricken gross. Not as bad as Kombucha, but people usually preface the ‘buch with, “Hey, kombucha tastes like underboob sweat mixed with apple cider vinegar, so mentally prepare yourself.”

I didn’t have the heart to pour it down the sink, knowing that fish might have to taste this fucking trash beverage. I decided to take one for the team and shotgun it.

Did you know that your mouth is connected to your nose? I did. Only because the Peach-Pear La Croix went in my mouth then out my nose. Some of the drink probably went back into my mouth, which means that I had to drink it twice. I’ve never seen Pet Sematary, but I feel like me having to re-drink a drink I already drank, but with a vengeance is pretty close in plot.

Don’t acknowledge the existence of Peach-Pear La Croix.

Don’t drink Peach-Pear La Croix.

Don’t shotgun Peach-Pear La Croix.

Just live your life and pretend there is no Peach-Pear La Croix.


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