Brussel Sprouts: An Allegory of What True Happiness Is(n't)

This is going to sound weird, but stick with me.

I don't like the idea that we may have to be happy or will eventually be happy with something we don't think we'll be happy with or that we aren't happy with to begin with.

I know that happiness is an extremely subjective, often problematic word. I'm not even going there. But let me see if I can try to explain. In front of you sits a plate full of brussel sprouts. There aren't many things that I don't like; I'm seriously (and surprisingly, to some) unpicky about food. But brussel sprouts are an exception. I don't do brussel sprouts. There is nothing you can do to convince me that I'm going to like them if I start eating them. They look like stinking little cabbages, they stink, and they taste like something an ogre would enjoy. (Please forgive me if you like brussel sprouts--I don't mean to imply that you're an ogre.)

But some would say, "Girl, you better eat those brussel sprouts! They're good for you. Besides, when's the last time you've had any? You don't even remember, do you? Just eat them. You might find that they're better than you thought they were." I don't like that. That kind of reasoning scares me and makes me queasy.

I don't like to think of true happiness as learning to suppress your gag reflex to stomach some detestable brussel sprouts and finding out later that you really love brussel sprouts, that your gag reflex was nothing but the devil trying to steal your blessing. I would rather think of it as getting a large supreme pizza that you didn't even order delivered right to your front door. You were craving something and couldn't really put your finger on it, but once your doorbell rang and you opened the door and found the deliveryman holding it out to you, you knew that it was exactly what you wanted.