Really I should be better than this. A twelve-pack of Miller Lite? Acceptable in college, certainly. At any respectable college party, Miller Lite would be far preferable to the usual shit—Natty, Keystone, what have you. In college, I’d be a king.
When you’re my age—30, but passable as 28 or 29—when you’re my age, Miller Lite doesn’t cut it anymore. When you’re 30-but-passable-as-28-or-29, you’re supposed to be an aficionado. You’re supposed to spend your evenings at places like Hop Leaf with your well-off, nicely-but-not-too-nicely-dressed coworkers. You’re supposed to drink the darkest stouts to show your manly good taste, and you’re supposed to compliment the girls on their choice of whatever tripel, because that’s pretty good, for a girl.
Later you’re supposed to marry one of those girls, and you’re supposed to have the engagement party at Hop Leaf with their fancy beers because that’s where you got to know each other and it’s so romantic. And then maybe 15 or 20 years after that, when you’re fat and you never go out and you just watch football on the couch, then you can have Miller Lite again because nobody cares, least of all your wife. Actually, she might care, but she won’t say anything about it. She’ll just get silently bitter that you’re no longer the man you were between your Miller Lite stints. She’ll probably stop having sex with you.
What better topic for Friday flash fiction than beer? Tonight I am watching Doctor Who with Gena because duh. We're going to attempt to go through as many of our favorites as we possibly can. Too bad I already wore my Doctor Who panties this week.