The CACA Committee Anonymous

Picture me, the morose infant, drowning in copious amounts of wedding lace fabric. I am perched on my mother’s hip as she chats amiably to another guest. Eyes pinched and lips puckered, I am a tempest held at bay only by the bottle of Coca-Cola I am slurping from. A remarkable relationship is born: I guzzle three more bottles during the occasion alone and nearly three hundred more over the course of my childhood and early adolescence.

My childhood obsession with Coca-Cola stemmed from my efforts to establish personal and social balance. I coveted the looks of the girl on the cherry-red billboard above the convenience store: all lightweight curls and effervescent mien, leading a life of bold Technicolor. When I needed to raise funds for my secondary school education, I thought of nothing other than the cherry-red complex on Alexander Road that claimed to be the Coca-Cola offices. My optimism was boundless: I put together a package that showed my academic merit and passion for engineering. I embodied the Coke mission statement; I expected that this similitude would fizz off my package and compel the management to invest my goals. I realized, from my mother’s sad smile when I presented my plan, that this would not be the case.

I...