“IT’S TOO SWEET! IT’S JUST TOO DAMN sweet!â€Â

These are the sorts of things I find myself saying about bottled iced tea, when I̢۪m down looking for a refreshing drink in the student union or the library. Usually, I̢۪d just buy water, but every once in a while, a bottle of Lipton or Nestea catches my eye.

And — more often than not, now — it’s a decision that I end up regretting. Because, as it turns out, approximately 97 percent of all teas bottled and sold in the US are, indeed, too damn sweet.
Why can̢۪t I learn?

I suspect it has something to do with the fact that it hasn̢۪t always been this way for me. I haven̢۪t always found the taste of sweetened tea beverages so repulsive, so gag-inducing. I remember a time when, at the soda fountain at Taco Bell, I̢۪d quickly spring for a large Raspberry Iced Tea.

I remember a time when Bruce Willis, battling George Jefferson in what most certainly must have been his bleakest hour, reached out from beneath a pile of cans of iced tea, popped the top and drank it all down before pronouncing the three words that — to me, then — spoke volumes in truth. “That’s Brisk, baby.â€Â

Alas, the 27 grams of sugar per can do not resonate with me (or my palate) quite the same way these days. What once I might have, likewise, identified as “Brisk,â€Â now tastes tongue-numbingly, tooth-achingly syrupy and heavy.

And so went Arizona brands. And so went Snapple. And Nestea, and Tazo and ostensibly more natural teas like Lipton̢۪s PureLeaf brand. They were all, ultimately, too sweet for me to stomach.

This hasn̢۪t been a long journey. As late as this time, last year, I remember sitting next to the adviser for The Collegian when he ordered an unsweetened iced tea.

I may have even said something at the time, but I definitely remember thinking that the drink seemed a bit flavorless for me.

That may have been the last time that thought ever crossed my mind, as though all of a sudden, the sugar had become too much — as though they had bombarded my taste buds once too many, and had decided en masse to cast off the heavy burden of negotiating with palate-deadening corn syrup.

And I suspect that revolt may have spread throughout the rest of my body. Even Taco Bell, once a staple of my diet, has begun to leave me feeling heavy and sluggish, and so a chicken Gordita doesn̢۪t appear nearly as appetizing as it once did.

This is more, though, than a simple change in preferences. It isn̢۪t quite the same as the transition I made from macaroni and Snickers bars to actual produce and naturally-colored food.

It̢۪s not the same as how, when I was four years old, I didn̢۪t like broccoli but then, when I was ten years old, I did.

The change is more substantial, more radical and physiological.

And, as if my body wanted to prove it to me, I’ve begun getting heartburn — more frequently and with a greater magnitude.

And so, surrounded by the remains of discarded packages of things I no longer want to put into my body, it’s hard not to look in the mirror and ask: “Is this what it’s like to get old?â€Â

And I feel like I shouldn’t even be asking myself these questions — should any 22-year-old?

Or does the realization of aging come this suddenly for everyone?

I don’t stay up as late as I did when I started college. I don’t sleep in as late, either. I don’t enjoy myself as much around large groups of people. Everything I’m supposed to be, as a college student, I’m suddenly not — as much — anymore.

I don̢۪t know how to deal with the anxiety of feeling like maybe I don̢۪t belong here anymore, in this place that drinks disgusting tea and sells unappetizing food.

I figure that I have two options, really: on one hand, I can dismiss the anxiety as normal, and assume that I am worrying myself over nothing.

But, of course, it̢۪s hard to quell those fears.

The other is that I accept this as a new phase in my life, and embrace it all with a fervor and zeal for the newness of it all.

But that would be just too damn sweet.