Let's say your work sponsored a picnic where attendance was mandatory. A good time was expected to be had by all, so pratice your fake smiles.
You arrive at the picnic and everyone is there, people who have been around forever and people who are fresh on the job. They've never been to one of your work picnics and have no idea what to expect.
Unfortunately, you do; so when the large pitcher of lemonade was placed on the red plaid table cloth, the new ones were perplex by the moan by some in the crowd.
As ritual dictated, everyone took a glass as the boss delivered a toast and everyone took a feeble little sip of the yellow liquid.
Your eyes roll in the back of your head at the awful taste.
"Hmmmm....." says the woman in front of you. Mrs. Ponderheart is considering the problem presented by this tart beverage.
Your partner in crime on the other side of the crowd simply spilled the liquid onto the ground.
"Just freakin' awful," retorts Mr. Youngscruff behind you.
And when the boss says, "So, this lemonade isn't very good, how should we fix it?"
Everyone is silent for a minute, a few shuffle their feet, others look bored, you've been here before and count the minutes for it to be over--and then the flood gates open.
"I do believe," Mr. Saysalot starts high atop the pedestal he errected for himself to stare down at the rest of us, "If we gave the lemonade a more formal name, such as Sir Tartntasty or Madame Lemonfresh that that will solve the problem."
People do not dispute the words of Mr. Saysalot, so they just stand there, mute.
"I think," Mrs. Ponderheart practically shouts so all can hear her, "If we place the lemondae in nice looking red glasses, then that will solve the problem."
"Oh, I don't know," starts Mr. Useless, "What if someone is color blind, or doesn't like red? Perhaps we should have red and blue glasses and people can choose."
Mr. Youngscruff is mumbling swear words under his breath, and you cannot help but chuckle--warranting a dirty glance from near the head picnic table.
"Red and Blue," muses Mrs. Esoteric, "sounds like a political statement. Some sort of pro-patriotic statement. I'd prefer to move away from such charged choices for our lemonade. Perhaps nice looking clear cups that are made from recycled materials would help sooth our sense of moral goodness."
"I thought I made it clear," Mr. Saysalot responds in slight disgust, "If we give it a better name, the problem will be solved."
Mrs. Ponderheart decides to take this opportunity to flex her rhetorical muscles, "And who is to decide the name of the lemonade?" she practically demands, "I propose we form an advisory committee to develop names for the lemonade, and since it is my idea, I will volunteer to lead it."
You almost throw your lemonade glass at her. Egotistic, that one.
Once upon a time, you proposed changing the lemonade--perhaps giving the mixture more lemons--extending the flavor with blocks of sugar instead of using a teaspoon of sugar for the entire pitcher. You had some friends who proposed the same idea--and after the onslaught of derision from the masses, you have remained silence ever since.
So, guess what, once again you were forced to argue about the flavor of lemonade by changing everything but the lemonade itself. And after everyone had the opportunity to stand on the soap box and say their piece, the picnic was dismissed with every person believing they had made great progress, and next time the lemonade would taste awesome.
I'm sure you cannot wait for the next picnic--I know I can't.