1plus1

I didn't get everything I wanted when I was a kid. I always thought that being told "no" was a universal experience, but after talking with friends, it seems like not being able to eat the foods I wanted to eat, and not being able to go to places I wanted to go was strangely unique. And I'm not saying that to feel sorry for myself. I'm not clinging to it on purpose. But for some reason, it's hard to shed. It sticks to the back of my thoughts like gum on a shoe.

A few weeks ago, I was having dinner with a couple I'm close to. I asked them—"Are you afraid to die?" Kind of blunt, but I meant it. And I told them, I am. I'm scared to die now.

It wasn't always like that. When I was in college, riding my motorcycle through the Berkeley Hills—revving the engine, leaning hard into the curves like I was on some MotoGP track—I never feared death. I rode like I had nothing to lose. Because back then, I really didn't feel like I did. Life wasn't bad, but it wasn't exactly something I felt like I had to protect either.

Now, at 27, it's different. My life finally feels like it's getting good. I'm not saying the past 25 years were a waste—but I can say with confidence that now, things feel solid. I can afford to get a pizza that isn't Domino's. I can have a cocktail at a bar and not obsess over whether it was worth it. I don't have to dig through the bottom shelf for the cheapest vodka and mix it with whatever soda I have left at home.

I have a hard time thinking that this is unique to me. Maybe that's just the natural progression for a lot of people. Maybe not. I remember being 22, 23, on a date at some sushi spot. The wait was an hour. Normally I don't wait for food—I just don't like it. But I stayed. Funny enough, there was a bar next door, but the idea of going in, ordering a drink, just waiting it out… it never crossed my mind. Not because I didn't want to—but because I didn't feel financially stable enough to enjoy it.

I told my brother about that night, and he laughed. Called me an old man, stuck in my crusty, penny-pinching ways. And he was right. I had a job at a biology lab. I lived at home. I wasn't paying rent. I could've gone to that bar. I just didn't.

Nowadays, I probably would. I've got a job. I'm not rich, but I'm fine. I'm okay. I even sent my brother a photo of me and those same friends—the couple—eating pizza and drinking cocktails, talking about life and death. I told him, "We don't do this often." And it's true. I invite him to places like that sometimes, and he usually says no. And deep down, I get it.

Because even if we made a million dollars, I think there's a part of us that would still walk by those fancy drinkable yogurts in the grocery store and not put one in the cart.

That yogurt—thick, sweet, four-ounce bottle for five dollars—that's my thing. Not Yakult, not probiotic shots. I mean the real drinkable yogurt, the kind that always felt too expensive. I never got it as a kid. Didn't get it in college either, even though I could afford it then. I just couldn't justify it. I'd go for the ones on sale—10 for $5, maybe 50 cents a cup. Something inside me never let me feel like I deserved the good stuff.

Then in 2023, I went to Korea. At a convenience store, I saw them lined up in the fridge. Pear, peach, strawberry, plain. And they were on sale—one plus one. You buy one, you get one. They were maybe $1.10 each. And for once, I didn't hesitate. I drank them with every meal. I drank them at 2 a.m. when I woke up hungry. I didn't feel guilty. I just felt free.

In a few weeks, I'm going back to Korea. This time with my brother, my oldest sister, and my dad. I'm excited—but there's guilt too. Traveling still feels like a luxury. I didn't grow up with vacations. So the idea of going somewhere just for fun still feels strange to me. But I pushed for this trip. We're all adults now. My dad agreed to go, and I don't think we'll get an opportunity like this again.

So for those ten days, while I'm there, I'm going to drink all the yogurt I can get my hands on.

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