ANXIETY HELL

But I thought we could just spoon a litte. No?

It’s after one-thirty in the morning and as I was about to commence my nightly ritual of taking my Ambien and watching Raccoon Attack on NatGeo, I happened to glance down the side of the two liter jug of root beer I was swilling. There, on the faux-wooden barrel label, that ominous little exclamation mark in a triangle preceding the word “WARNING” caught my eye.

I paused, mid-swallow, and thought to myself, “No, surely root beer cannot attack as well. Was shattering my illusions that I might safely one day snuggle with the cutest Zoro-masked furballs in the rodent kingdom not enough for you, God?! Must you now taint my favorite non-Mr. Pibb soft drink with images of death, too?”

I considered the caps lock warning, hoping the only reason my root beer bore a disclaimer was because some overzealous fetus-loving organization had won a lawsuit against pregnant caffeine addicts, but then I remembered…A&W isn’t caffeinated. 

At this point I decided I might as well see what new phobia I could add to my list of Things That Make Me a Pussy and was confronted with the single most horrifying tidbit of information I could have read: 

CAP MAY BLOW OFF CAUSING EYE OR SERIOUS OTHER INJURY. POINT AWAY FROM FACE AND PEOPLE, ESPECIALLY WHILE OPENING.

Fine, I thought, I’ll point it away from my face while opening next time, unless I’m wearing my onion goggles, but how in the hell am I supposed to point it away from my face while I’m chugging out of it?

This was only the first of many disheartening contemplations the admonition evoked. Not only was I disturbed that even root beer could force me to relive my formative days as the only girl on my preschool campus sporting an eye patch, but I was troubled by the fact that, apparently, my mother has a secret second job in copywriting for A&W.

Now every time I see someone selecting a soda in a vending machine, I’m going to feel the need to scream, “Stop! You could put my eye out with that thing.” And I was just celebrating the fact that no one had hit me in the eye with a champagne cork over the holidays. I’m so glad my embarrassing urge to duck and cover my face every time someone mentions they’re thirsty is going to last year-round.

Thanks a lot, Authority of Dr Pepper/Seven Up, Inc. Don’t be surprised if you get an irate call on your 866 number when my Damnbien kicks in in another six to nine minutes. We’ll see who needs a warning then. Oh, we’ll see indeed.