I first heard him talking about them in the room nearby where I was sitting.

He was going on and on about how good it was.

He talked about the Italian soda, about the cream, about the blue raspberry flavoring, about the hint of coconut, and finally, about the infusion of Red Bull.

And that is where I more or less tuned him out.

Because, I have a thing about energy drinks.

And up to that point, I had kept myself pure, kept my lips unstained from such.

To be clear, coffee isn’t an energy drink.  In fact, as we speak, I am drinking some.

It offers up some caffeine, for sure.

But that isn’t so much what I have against energy drinks.

It’s the hype that I don’t do.

I can’t gather onto the shameless actions of these big drink companies that play into the hands of unsuspecting teenagers.

I get perturbed when I see all the rad sports that these companies have their name emblazoned in garish lettering on as the video flicks by while trying to maintain contact with some twisting, contorted human being that is in serious danger of life threatening injury upon arrival back with blessed earth.

I mean, how funny would it be to see coffee beans and their associated origins flaunted at such events. 

And when I step into the trucks of my boys and those hired on with us, I see tabs from any number of various drink companies stuck in the headliner and, in one case, encircling the entire cab roof . . . I must come to grips with the reality of really how successful these companies are.

But I can’t toss everything he’s saying about his drink out.

Afterall, he was the one who got me started on Ariat shirts, and that when I didn’t even know such a thing existed.

And that little sideline hustle of his has proved rather successful in my life.

Anyways, I mostly forgot about his sales pitch about those drinks, until one day he walked into my office with one of them, ferried all the way from its source, 20 miles away, dripping with dew, and extended towards me with unmistakable intention.  

Of course, I demurred.

But such wasn’t an option. 

I think, if I remember right, that I waited until he was out of my office to take my first pull on the straw.

And, I think if I remember right, I reconciled that first drag with the thought that it would only be one sip and then I’d leave the rest of it for my daughter, leaving me largely unscathed of the reputation of such an imbiber.

But the dumb thing is, I couldn’t stop.

It tasted so good I almost thought it was sinful.

And, lest I be less than perfectly transparent here, I sneakily made my way to a mirror when no one was watching, to see if, in fact, it had colored my tongue blue. 

And, stupid thing is, I’ve found myself driving twenty miles out of my way, on hot summer afternoons, or even just regular afternoons or mornings or evenings, to get that drink.

I guess I’m a member of the club, even if I don’t look as young as the rest of you all. 

And, I gather that others find it about as amazing as I do.

Right, Whitney?