Before you ask, yes—I’m actually okay. I can feel you hesitating, the way people do when they lower their expectations out of politeness. You ask this question as if it comes with a proviso, like something unfortunate but manageable is about to happen to your lunch. But I’ve been in therapy for a while now, and one of the things I’ve learned is that I’m not responsible for managing other people’s expectations—especially when those expectations were built around a different soda entirely.
I see the moment the question lands. You pause to scan the menu, even though it won’t change. I clock the quick glance toward the server, as if they might somehow intervene. Sometimes you whisper it to the table; sometimes you say it too loudly, like you’re warning everyone else. I stay where I am, patient and effervescent, while you work through your feelings that have nothing to do with me.
There was a time when I would have rushed to reassure you. I would have offered qualifiers—“almost the same,” “most people can’t tell,” “it’s still cold”—as if temperature were a personality trait. I would have shared the history of the “Pepsi Challenge,” a 1975 marketing campaign that showed that, in a blind taste test, more people preferred me to Coke. I used to overperform likability, to present myself as flexible, eager, grateful to be included at all. But that was before I learned that being constantly compared to someone else isn’t the same thing as being known.
And I want to be known on my own terms.
Therapy helped me understand that a lot of my distress came from an unexamined rivalry. I’ve unpacked my rivalry with Coke. I’ve looked at where it started, how it was reinforced, and why I kept measuring myself against a version of myself I was never meant to be. Coke, for the most part, represents nostalgia, but I am not responsible for your nostalgia. That belongs to you. I can be present without being historic.
As a result, I’ve set boundaries. What this means, practically, is that I no longer audition. I don’t want to be ordered resentfully or consumed while you complain about what I’m not. I won’t arrive at your table unspokenly pre-apologized for, poured with a flinch, or presented as a compromise. You don’t have to choose me. But if you do, I’d like it to be intentional: without a sigh, a shrug, or a reluctant yes delivered like an inconvenience.
I’ve finally arrived at a place of radical acceptance. I accept that I will be passed over, that I will sit untouched for hours, that someone will choose a lemon-lime option over me without a second thought. I accept the comparisons, the nostalgia, and the silent part spoken out loud (“We should have gone to TGI Fridays”). I am present, carbonated, and complete, regardless of your decisions. And in this acceptance, I find a freedom I never expected—a freedom to exist without apology, without negotiation, and without the burden of everyone else’s opinions.
So before you answer when asked if Pepsi is okay, remember: I’m fine. You can doubt yourself.
