A new study (“study”) says that men don’t want their dainty lady-dates to order beer on dates. According to food and drink rec app Wist, 35 percent of guys want their dream girl to drink wine, 26 percent think it’s really sexy when a lady orders a “specialty cocktail like a Mojito or Margarita,” and only 18 percent of dudes say their ideal woman orders a beer.
This is alarming for two reasons. One, as eloquently and reasonably articulated by Claire Lower over at xoJane, is that judging fantasy nonexistent ideal people with a series of mental checkboxes is stupid and mean and not that likely to get you what you want, unless what you really, really want is a sommelier, in which case, carry on, I guess. But the other is this: do men actually not like women who drink beer?? Because if that is true, I’ve been doing everything wrong. I taught myself to like beer for dudes, it worked, I like beer now, and I fucking want credit for that. A taste for IPAs isn’t born, it’s learned. I learned it! Now give me all the sex appeal.
As a profoundly rule-abiding person who is very afraid of being yelled at, I didn’t drink until college. My first beers were, I know now, gross beers. I was fine with them, though, because they tasted kind of like dirty seltzer. I love seltzer and I am not the best at doing dishes, so it was a familiar flavor. But as the years passed, it became clear to me that beer was supposed to taste like something. People seemed to have preferences and thoughts and feelings about beer. The men I tended to be interested in seemed to have a lot of preferences and thoughts and feelings about beer. I had none myself, but I thought taste might be a good thing to cultivate. So I did.
It was “for dudes,” I guess — so shoot me — but also, it wasn’t. I liked men who liked beer and wanted them to also like me, but I also like not feeling stupid. I like having preferences. I wasn’t into beer myself, but I got how that was a thing one could be into, and I am generally in favor of being into things. If every guy I was even moderately interested in, without exception, was super into the early works of Robert Altman or contemporary dance or dairy farming, I do not think I would be compromising my principles by trying to also appreciate that thing. I like the idea of knowing about things, and of being the kind of person — and yes, the kind of girl — who can order at a bar and not be embarrassing. So I experimented. Under the impression that “uh, whatever you’re having, I guess?” is not a super alluring response, I developed some moderate semblance of preferences. I have, not to brag or anything, occasionally even been complemented on my ability to order beer well. To my knowledge, this has never been code for “why didn’t you get a sparkling wine, I’ll never marry you now,” although I suppose I could be wrong about that.
So sorry, Wistful gentleman. It’s too late. You can’t change your mind like this. I like beer now. I’m going to keep ordering it, thank you. The joke is on me, I guess, if I’m an undatable monster and can never compete with my sexily Mojito-loving sister, but also, Wisters, the joke is on you: beer, it turns out, is delicious.