It’s been 10 days since I had my last Pepsi.

The first week week was hard but, let me tell you, Day 8 was the toughest so far. The last bottle of Pepsi is in the fridge, half gone from my last indulgence of the liquid ambrosia.

On Day 8, I seriously considered chugging the flat contents while I stood in front of the open refrigerator and figuratively pondered all of my life choices that have lead to this dark moment.

I walked away and thought about the progress I had made. I weighed myself and found myself just 3 ounces less than the week before. Progress?! This isn’t even worth the distress! I walked back to the fridge.

I thought about what my husband might say. He would have told me it’s okay to have some with moderation. Shit, no help there. I walked away.

From the living room, I glared at the refrigerator and I thought about pouring the offending nectar down the drain. I decided that would be the epitome of weakness so still it sits on the top shelf.

Day 8 was the day I was grateful I work from home and don’t have to face people.

I didn’t drink the damn thing.

I won but definitely don’t feel quite so badass anymore.