“I’ll have a . . .”
Cue the nerves. Are you out with friends? Coworkers? A date? How much you want to bet your answer changes based on those three different scenarios.
It’s a loaded statement. And what follows likely carries with it a lot of judgement. A martini? A scotch? A white wine spritzer?
Depending on your age, your gender, and your social situation, the way you finish out that sentence bears a lot of weight.
Trust me, I’ve been there. Oh, you’re not so sure of my expertise in the Dance of the Drink Order? Allow me to paint you a picture.
I spent the entirety of my twenties (and the first part of my thirties) as an ovary-having individual in the gun industry surrounded by hairy, testosterone-y men who felt the need to shake your hand overly hard to prove that they had a large penis. Which, coincidentally, always led to me thinking the opposite of their intention. (Note to men: The harder you try, the smaller we think it is. Just chill.)
But alas, I was not always the bastion of badassery that I am today. I, too, fell victim to attempting to shake hands harder. Curse louder (that one hasn’t changed). Drink more. But you couldn’t just drink anything. Nooooo. You couldn’t sidle up to the Circle Bar at SHOT Show and toss out an order for a Cosmo. I had to prove that I was one of the boys. Neigh — one of the men.
Trying to fit in with the men meant drinking a lot of scotch. (And smoking more than my fair share of cigars.) Don’t get me wrong — there are some nice scotches out there, and I’ve enjoyed quite a few. I have my go-to that I genuinely don’t mind drinking (looking at you, Dalmore), but I’d be kidding myself (and you) if I were to say that I enjoyed drinking them.
So fess up . . .
How many of you feel the same? How many other women (or hell, men) sit there sipping and keeping a straight face purely because they want to seem like their non-existent (or existent) balls are as big as any others at the table? Surely I can’t be the only one. And how many women claim that they loooooove a good whiskey because it makes them seem sexy and a little dangerous? I can think of a few in my Instagram feed just off the top of my head.
But knowing that so many of us must be faking it (in more ways than one, eh) makes me wonder . . . What is the real sign of being dangerous? What is a more true indication of being untamable? Claiming that you enjoy something because it’s what you think other people will find sexy, or drinking your god damn mimosa like a fucking boss because it’s what you want and the general population can more or less go fuck themselves? I’m thinking it’s the second one.
So let’s start a riot. A revolution. An upheaval of uncouth cocktails. An anarchistic about-face in alcoholic alchemy. (Boom. Proud of that one.) Because life’s too short to drink what you think you should instead of what you want. Men. Get you that fucking Apple Martini because the color makes you happy. Ladies, it’s perfectly acceptable for you to order a Chardonnay then go wipe the floor with some fools at the pool table.
Because ordering a girly drink doesn’t make you weak. It means you know what the hell you want and frankly, my dear, you couldn’t give a single damn what someone else thinks.
Because a true baller balls to their own tune. And for those ladies who do enjoy a stiff drink? Then more fucking power to you. I’ll clink your rocks glass with my champagne flute any day.
If you need me, I’ll be over here sipping my Tom Collins. Does it make me sound so old that you expect me to keel over any second? Maybe. Do most bartenders look at me like they’re about to dust off their copy of Jerry Thomas’ Bar-Tenders Guide? Abso-fucking-lutely. Do I care any more? Nnnnnnope. And make it two maraschino cherries, motherfucker.
Author’s Note:
A Tom Collins is a refreshing-as-fuck cocktail made of two ounces London dry gin (I like Nolet's), one ounce lemon juice (fresh squeezed if you’re bougie), one half ounce simple syrup (Don’t have it? Boil some fucking equal parts water and sugar. It’s not hard.), and top it with club soda. I like to drop in two good ol’ sticky, sweet maraschino cherries. To represent my giant proverbial balls that I no longer feel the need to prove that I possess.
Cheers.
The Salty Fox