Pinkberry Frozen Yogurt - Always Trust Your Instincts

“Sarah, you will love it.”

"Everyone loves it."

Despite the common birth-order beliefs and stereotypes about ethnicity and gender that would pin a first-born Asian girl as an eager-to-please, subservient geisha, I am, in fact, highly sensitive to being told what to do, what to think, or how to feel. Perhaps it’s a little bit of a rebellious streak. Perhaps it’s a control issue. Perhaps it’s the natural reaction of an egoiste. Whatever the underlying cause(s) may be, any outside attempts to guide my decisions or actions make me bristle and immediately put me on the defensive. So extreme is my sensitivity that any such assumptions about how I will feel ("you will love it"), particularly when supported by an unqualified statement that herds me with the sheep ("everyone loves it") will automatically guarantee that I will feel the exact opposite.

My reaction may not be visible nor audible though, because the “Really? Oh, really?! Oh, re-he-he-heally?!?! We’ll never see about that!” that I hiss silently in my head comes out of my mouth as a sweet, polite “Maybe.” *smile* “Maybe I’ll try it.” (I'm not a geisha, but I play one on my blog!)

Obviously, I have absolutely no intention of ever trying it because I already know I will hate it.

Though someone else’s assumption about my personal preferences and an entire group’s approving opinion will put me on alert, nothing triggers a full-fledged hellno defense like something that also happens to appeal to my senses. It always turns out to be too good to be true.

“Sarah, you will love him.”

“Everyone adores him.”

“Maybe.” *smile* “Maybe I’ll go out with him.” Never! Never will I even consider ever going out with him.

But by some off chance, if the cosmos misaligns for a nanomoment, I might go against my natural instinct of stubborn refusal until I’m 43 years old, alone in this same apartment with two cats and a one-cup rice cooker. I might go out with him because everyone else seems to think I will like him.

But I’ll be on alert.

Alert will flare up into full-fledged defense systems when I meet him for the first time because his cashmere V-neck sweater and flat-front charcoal pin-stripe trousers painted onto his 6’1” athletic-to-lean frame will appeal to my senses. And defense will be justified when he opens his mouth to talk because it will be two hours of pure velveeta cheese. Cashmere V-neck sweater and 6'1" was too good to...you know.

If by some off chance, the cosmos misaligns for a nanomoment and I happen to find myself shopping at the Century City mall, I might step into Pinkberry, but I’ll be on alert. And alert will flare up into full-fledged defense systems because the clean, bright white and pastel Sanrio-on-a-Canadian-prescription-of-Soma aesthetic will appeal to my senses. And defense will be justified when I open my mouth because Pinkberry frozen yogurt tastes like freezer-burnt icy cream cheese.

I knew I would hate it.

Matrix of fresh fruit and breakfast cereal? It was too good to...you know.