It’s not often I emote publically. I’m not an advocate for telling your coworkers what you think of your boss on Facebook (while secretly hoping he or she doesn’t send you a friend request requiring you to back-edit up to several months); I won’t follow someone who gives a weekly sappy relationship update on Instagram. I won’t even vote for the guy who throws tantrums on Twitter. Yet here, in this public forum I would like to personally thank you Happy Hour for being my best friend. Your martinis, much like my thought process, come with a twist.
I remember when I first met you; I was still so young and impressionable. Sure, I had heard of specials before, usually a regrettable shot that helped me pinpoint where I went wrong the night before. But you, Happy Hour, with your consistency and loyalty stood above the rest. You show up every workday, on time and know when to say “when.” After our first several encounters all I could think, besides the fact I had solidified a life-long friendship, was there by the grace of God go I.
I’ve been to bars without you, and sure, some of them are adequate, but I far prefer your company. Bars without you is like always being asked if I’m okay getting charged extra for guacamole. Shouldn’t that just be included in the price as who wants a burrito without guacamole? I mean we both know you’ve backed me into a corner to where I have to agree to this coercion as “obviously, obviously I’m going to get the guacamole, Carol.” I’ve sprinted off on a tangent, and it’s okay avocado, I’m extra too, but it’s still nice to know you exist in the world, Happy Hour. Sometime the little guy can win, and get more for less, and not have to be reminded as to why. You are an island of yourself in a sea of mediocrity. I shall call your island the Isle of Mixed Metaphor.
I shall stop comparing you to other things and get back to the root of my point: friendship. Friendships come and go, but you have always been by my side—meeting me after work to help me drink away the day’s woes. (Sometimes, when I’m least expecting it, you even surprise me on a weekend.) Just you, the many drinks fitting within my budget, and me-- I enjoy drinking with you as it still allows me to make rent. You, as well as many scientists would concur alcohol is in fact a solution.
You don’t discriminate. You are equally lovely over wine, beer or spirits. I appreciate your openness, your versatility, and most importantly, your frugality. My favorite place, I would even go so far as to call it our place, would be The Winslow on 14th St. in Manhattan. It’s so convenient to meet you there as we both work near Union Square and live off the L Train. We can go anytime during a weekday and let the fates decide how our night is going to go. If we just want to see each other we can do so over beer, if we want to tell each other how pretty the other is we can do so over wine, and if we want to tell each other how much we love the other, over and over again until the bartender hands us our tab, we can do so over gin.
I love you Happy Hour, and I always will. Talk Soon.