He judged me for the can in my hand, and I cared so much. It was the dumbest drink, too. A pale ale with a stupid, bright blue, preppy whale on it. Not even a cool beer, but it impressed him. I could tell by his dumb grin as he pointed it out to the other guys on the porch. “Does she look like a girl who would drink BudLight Lime-A-Ritas?” he said, condescending to them.
And I can’t get that moment out of my head. (I think at least) it bothers me more that I can’t get it out of my head than the judgement itself, a judgement I know was born of distorted standards. That beer had a fucking a whale on it!
Why can’t I let go of that judgement? Why does he take pride in having dated a girl who drinks pale ales? And why is that what he still likes about me?
As it turns out, I’m just a prop in his self identity story. I didn’t even like beer when we dated two years ago. And Mike’s Hard Black Cherry Lemonade will forever be a favorite beverage of mine.