In my head, I’m the girl you bring to the back room of the poker game. The girl that doesn’t cough in a haze of cigar smoke, and can has never heard a dirty joke or story she couldn’t match with her own. She drinks scotch and knows who is playing this weekend. She never has to make funny noises to explain to a mechanic what’s wrong with her car, and never complains that she’s too cold or it’s too dirty to have a good time. That doesn’t mean she’s not feminine. It just means being tough as nails and being able to hold her own, gender lines be damned.
A “Robin” if you will.
And sometimes, I am. Not the mechanic thing, and I hate cigars and I still don’t understand poker. But generally — I can hold my own. And even when I can’t? I really, really want to. Because somehow, all of those things translate to “confidence” in my mind. Never being cowed by anyone — taking a seat at the table, even if the table is covered in beer.
But scotch? Man, I tried. I tried bourbon, I tried whiskey, I tried scotch. I tried all manner of manly drinks that come in tumblers or that get ordered dirty or neat.
And they’re all fine. I can handle the burning, and I can taste the smoky, vanilla-ish notes. It’s all good. But do I like it?
And finally, one day — out with friends, everyone was ordering a glass of wine at a cute bar downtown. They all had opinions on buttery chardonnays, versus full-bodied malbecs and god knows what else. And I was just so tired of faking it. These were my friends, and I was already pretty drunk. You know what I wanted?
That’s right. The sparkly, pink champagne.
And I got it. Because you know what’s sexier than a woman who knows what she wants, even if what she wants generally comes with fruit floating in it and enough sugar to go into a diabetic coma?