Regardless of what kind you get, most offer a suspicion of flavor rather than a bracing burst of taste. Fine by me; everything these days seems too sweet or intense for my liking, anyway. Aside from the can, everything about LaCroix is gentle. Even the bubbles are small and frothy rather than spiky — a Vinho Verde, not a cava — making it easy to put away a couple in one sitting, totally guilt-free. That’s because LaCroix is everything-free: sugar, sodium, calorie, preservative. It comes in 12 core flavors, but true LaCroix-heads know that Pamplemousse is the best.

The company that originally made the drink was based in La Crosse, Wis., and the brand’s vestigial Midwestern guilelessness collides awkwardly with its European pretensions: “Pamplemousse” instead of “Grapefruit”; a new line of flavors called “Cúrate” (loosely, “cure yourself” en Español). It even has a nutrition ambassador named Barb, who lives in Arizona. Her Twitter bio says she is a “former Bostonian enjoying sunshine 365.” LaCroix also sponsors running teams in places like Plantation, Loxahatchee and Sunrise, Fla. To the extent it has a brand identity, LaCroix is for people who might not be perfect but are proud of their lifestyle choices every day.

I recently came to the realization that it had been easily 12 years since I’d strung together more than one or two days of sobriety without having five or six drinks to celebrate. I’d been casually buzzed for over a decade, just like everyone I have ever met who isn’t actively in recovery, and while we’re all doing our best, it did strike me as a little gross. So recently, I quit everything to see if I could do it. I’ve now been totally sober for just over a month, which isn’t exactly a feat of discipline. But in five weeks — without rewards or those crackly bursts of serotonin where the vibe in the room coalesces and people start chattering at one other with renewed interest — you start getting lonely and self-conscious, unsure of whether you get to hang out anymore.

This Midwestern seltzer has come to fill the gaps that booze and pot left behind. Now, when I meditate in the morning and set my intentions — promising not to smoke cigarettes or slug pinot grigio at lunch or eat the brick of weed fudge in my fridge, which would only make me eat every last Dorito in my sunshine-­less hell box — I let LaCroix lead me to positive thoughts.

LaCroix is not as exhilarating as taking ecstasy at Joshua Tree, blanketed by a glittering velveteen sky, but, boy, do I get stoked when I’ve remembered to pack one for the movie theater. And now that I’m free of a constant low-grade hangover, I’m left with a lot of time to just walk around, extra alert. I see all of us now. The truth is, for every dork that buys Sriracha-branded knee socks at Urban Outfitters, there’s a mid-30s lady quaffing crates of flavored soda water because that’s her “thing.” My seltzer fixation broadcasts to the world that I’m getting older and, like everyone in their mid-30s in Los Angeles, on some form of passive diet or detox. It’s stupid, but there is an unmistakable joy when friends spot me by my can and strike up a conversation about how they secretly like Orange the best. They know LaCroixville is a safe space — a tacky community with as much judgment as there are calories. Zip.