Being forty nine soon to be fifty you lose your umph. Whatever that means. It’s as if I’ve become expired milk. If you’re not married or in a relationship, your alone. I am a rare breed, where I have mates all over the world but not in my city. Or I did have someone.

For nine years he was my someone. We would hit different bars. He introduced me to dark beer and I learned to love porter’s and stout’s.

But I’ve always loved happy hour. I recall going to Europe for my first time and trying ouzo or an unusual greek wine.Even rare white wines in Italy.

I love the conversation that comes with a drink. The way someone holds their glass. The laughter that follows after a short story or the banter that lies in between.

The best drink I ever had was with my grandfather. I had to wait until I was twenty one. He made me take out my driver’s license,he looked at it for about four minutes to make sure I was legal. Then he asked me what I wanted? I told him, his drink with extra lime. So I sat patiently in the living room with my nana, and drunk cousin Betsy, waiting for my vodka cranberry. Thirty minutes later it appeared, and it was delicious. I had three that night while listening to Harry Belafonte. Until my cousin yelled, “this drink won’t fill itself”. 

Can a girl get a drink?