My Pain Is So Significant

In an effort to curb my enthusiasm for spending money and messing up the earth, I recently decided to purchase a reusable water bottle. Though I have rarely witnessed it, the sheer proliferation of water bottles that come pre-outfitted with a small hook, or clamp, seems to suggest that urban rappelling is a wildly popular activity. Virtually every model I encountered featured a clip or a ring or some other accessory intended to handily affix the bottle to the straps of your parachute or the support beams of your yurt.

However, my desire to be less wasteful is exceeded only by my lack of interest in engaging in strenuous physical activity, so finding a bottle appropriate to the needs of my preferred “sports”—sitting, eating, not looking like a hippie—proved a significant challenge. The athletically disinclined are rarely consulted in matters of water-bottle design, and it was with this excuse that I delayed my purchase, and continued to make my nightly trek down the block to the “Night of Stars Deli” for a three-dollar bottle of water.

This most recent weekend, still smarting from the sting of an irreversible Bank of America overdraft fee (don’t even TELL me that if I call them and ask them they’ll remove it, because I did and they won’t), I was standing in the air-conditioned, bourgeois market in my neighborhood waiting for a delayed friend. As fate designed, I found myself gazing at a shelf of reusable metal water bottles. Happily, these bottles seemed absent of any athletic flourishes or cartoonish graphics, both of which would have been inappropriate in my hands. Happier still, the most innocuous of these- a stainless steel number with a black twisty cap and no graphic design to speak of - was also the cheapest. I bought it and  tossed out the last of my Poland Spring sport-top bottles with a self satisfied smile, a smile I knew I’d employ regularly from now on.

At the first available water fountain I filled up the bottle. Taking the first sip, I felt a swell of pride. I was being responsible, taking another step towards financial solvency and at the same time doing my part to take care of the Earth who, when you stop to think about it, is sort of a green and blue mother to us all. 

I was pondering this new thought when mid-swig, something hit me in the teeth. I peered into the bottle. I had failed to dislodge a thick paper marketing pamphlet from the bottle before filling it up. It was soaked through, but I gathered through a dripping, cursory perusal, that it discussed how bad water-bottle pollution was for the Earth, and what a hero I was for doing my part to stop our planet’s destruction.  I agreed, but I’m not one who needs praise heaped upon me simply because I have a staunch moral compass and a heart of pure gold; I dumped the pamphlet into a nearby trash receptacle.

Throughout the day, whenever I was thirsty, I sipped from my new stainless steel pal and felt both refreshed and smug, though I must confess that not everything was perfect. For one thing, the bottle’s wide mouth and my poor coordination created an unfortunate sloshing situation, causing water to come coursing over the sides of the bottle’s mouth and cascade down my chin, and onto my shirt, making me look incredibly sweaty when I was at the gym and just plain disgusting when I was anyplace else. I noticed, too, that the stainless steel of the bottle gave the water an unpleasant, tinny taste. It was unappetizing, but I tried to disregard it. “No big deal, this is what it’s supposed to taste like,” I thought.  I’d get used to it probably, and besides, it made me feel like a soldier in The Great War, sipping from a metal canteen, hero-sweat dripping down my brow.

These were the rationalizations that I used to force myself to stick with the bottle. Everytime I went to sip from it, instead of experiencing cool, watery refreshment, I felt like I was licking a handful of wet nickels. Soon I began to expect the taste, even with water NOT from the water bottle. Sitting at a bar with my friend on Monday, I raised my glass to my mouth and anticipated the taste of rain-dampened car antenna and my senses were actually surprised when it didn’t come. After a few days I realized that the taste was not fading. I was not getting used to it.  Instead, it was burrowing into my tastebuds and greeting me with almost every ingestion. Food, coffee, candy; everything  now has a tinny undertaste that has made staying hydrated profoundly unappealing.

It has been almost a week now and everything tastes like metal. Is this normal? Am I dying or going blind or going blind AND dying? Will it be like Regarding Henry, and I’m gonna have to relearn how to pet a dog, and cherish my family and make love to my wife? Is that what happens in that movie? I never saw it.

If this bottle destroys me, I never will.