Women And Whiskey!

Not all girls are made of sugar, sweet and something nice. Some are made of whiskey, ice and a lot of spice!

“Drinks?”

“Rockford on the rocks, with a zing of lemon.”

“Whiskey?”

As I sat across the table from my date, and saw his lifted eyebrows, I knew I wouldn’t call this one back. The guy was expecting me to drink wine, vodka or anything that was considered ladylike. But what was his fault really? I smiled.

“You’re a whiskey person?”

“Totally!”

“You can hold it well or will I have to take you home?”

“Try me.”

I saw a flicker of judgement pass his eye. He was sure he’ll be taking me home, poor guy! I had a history of drinking my male friends under the table. I was always the designated driver when we went out for drinks. Yes, I drove. I knew where all the shiny metal things in a car were, and how to work them.

My teeny-tiny little feminine brain could comprehend the extremely complicated task of how to manoeuvre a car! That rare talent that all of humanity hasn’t already mastered! And to add to THIS exceptional trait, I could do so while under the influence of that forbidden drink: whiskey.

I liked my whiskey. It bode well with my stomach. I loved the way it slid down my throat and left a burning bitter-sweet aftertaste on my tongue. But more than that, I loved the way it spread through my body and made me feel like I could unclench my fists, sit back and let myself go. I loved the way it hit my head after a while when I left my chair. I loved how whiskey sat well in my body and gave me just the right kind of high.

I was all for good vodka, rum and wine, but whiskey was home. If I had to unwind, I would always go for a 60ml peg of whiskey. And I never thought that drinks had anything to do with gender, but apparently they do.

I’ve ordered whiskey in bars, and my male friends have ordered wine (because why not?). The bartender has automatically placed the wine in front of me and whiskey in front of my friend. It is difficult for men to comprehend that a woman can drink a whiskey and hold her head after she does.

“Let’s call for the bill.” I said after downing a couple of drinks and a plate of tiger prawns. I believed in good drinking and shameless eating, date or no date.

“Will you able to walk?” He asked my in a slurred sentence. He had downed a couple of whiskeys himself, trying to match me and feed his ego drink after another.

I couldn’t help but glare.

Of course I could walk home. But I smiled, paid my share and demonstrated a walk to the door, never to turn back.

I am a girl, I drink whiskey and I can parallel park. How is THAT for your prejudiced glass ceilings?