Dear weeknight drinking,
Thanks for being you. Thanks for realizing that college is over and drinking doesn’t have to be relegated to Saturday, brunching hard, day drinking at an apartment complex’s new but soulless pool, taking shots with dinner (if you even have dinner), and then closing down the bars like we’re branded with ancient Greek letters.
Thanks for giving us the motivation to actually buy local micro-brew beer and expensive scotch because we know it won’t be tossed back and regurgitated within one night by our asshole friends who will spend another evening locked in the bathroom because they didn’t think that double-fisting Keystone Lights and slurping Kentucky Deluxe jello shots was a bad idea. Jello shots are for the children anyway.
You are classy, weeknight drinking.
You’re all about what alcohol tastes like, not what it does. You want us to finally understand what the hell Esquire’s talking about when they recommend tequilas and talk about the finish. I sort of care now that Herradura tequila was bought out by Jack Daniels and that its tried and pure distillation process will suffer.
You want us to pull out a half-finished bottle of bourbon that we’ve been nursing for a month on special occasions, put on our favorite record, just listen. A fine malt and listening to music is meditation.
You want us to grow with you over time so we don’t turn into men that have no idea what to order in public and get giggly after two drinks. That order Michelob Ultra like some urbanist, post-Lance Armstrong phony. That dilute a good whiskey with Diet Coke.
We don’t have to experience you alone, weeknight drinking. We’ve all had long days working at the cubicle, and a happy hour cocktail is just what the doctor ordered. More and more, bars are starting to appreciate the tastes of the weeknight drinking crowd and have taught their bartenders how to work the classics. Gone are the circa-2007 days of ‘60s revivalists and AMC fans trying to be cool. Order the old fashioned without shame, because it’s smooth and refreshing. Period. And if you don’t have bitters on hand at all times, I won’t be back.
Best of all, every one of us has to get right back up in the morning and do it all again. Nobody is here to get hurt.
We can afford you now, weeknight drinking. If all we had on hand were cases of Natty Ice leftover from the kegger, we’d probably just have water. But we have jobs now, paychecks we can deduct from to buy that bottle $45 of prohibition era gin we’ve been lusting after (it pays for itself in one, ice-breaking conversation, “Yeah girl, this spirit is a different shade”). We’ve been craving, and we’re willing to make the investment, because we know it means we get to spend more time with you.
We know to have you in moderation, weeknight drinking. We may not be much wiser, but we know how many glasses of wine we can have before our lips turn purple. And that makes us savor you even more. We don’t drain our glass as quickly as we would at a bar. When we glance down after a few sips of a brilliant cognac and see we still have half a glass left, we get excited. We smile and giggle, a full-on Ron Swanson giggle, and we fall in love with you all over again.
We love you, weeknight drinking. And we always will. Even when we falter sometimes and hang out with your low-life brother, weekend drinking, we know we can always come back to you, and you’ll be there, with open arms and a refreshing beverage.
The 25 and over crowd