I was walking ‘round Cleveland Circle last week when I stopped in front of a sign hanging on a storefront and groaned. It read, in big pink and green bubbly letters, “Fruitee Yogurt: Coming Soon.”
In addition to the aggravatingly stupid spelling of “Fruitee,” I was enraged at the “Coming Soon” bit. How many fro-yo joints does one small city need? Because, according to a recent extremely scientific study I conducted, there are more frozen yogurt and bubble tea shops in Boston per square mile than the necessary quantity, which is zero. Imagine if every fro-yo place that opened, was … not a fro-yo place? What if it was an art gallery? A bookstore? A non-profit neighborhood center?
But perhaps even more maddening, I realized a quarter-mile of sulk-walking later, is that I love their inescapable existence as much I loathe it. While in any given neighborhood in this city, you have the comfort of knowing that you can make yourself a big ol’ four-flavored fat-free fro-yo mess piled high with whatever the fuck you want: “fresh” fruit, mochi, lychee, kiwi, cookie dough, brownie bites, graham cracker crumbs and cookie crisp.
The world is your oversized fro-yo cup!
This attitude is embodied by the phrase: FRO-YOLO. (“You Only Live Once,” being the Carpe Diem of LOL-speak.) Every time a fro-yo shop opens its doors, an opportunity to temporarily smother your day-to-day discontents presents itself, and I will happily continue to accept that opportunity all summer long.