I picked you up in a bar, where so many great relationships start.

Before I met you, I didn’t have much to do with cocktails. Some of you always seemed too complicated, too aggressive, too complex.

And so many seemed so damned bitter.

But then there you were, right in front of me. You were so refreshing. Practically effervescent. Sometimes literally. You didn’t take yourself too seriously, but you still had a certain complexity that made you interesting.

The world thinks we make a weird pair. And at first, I admit, I was a little shaken when it seemed that whenever I ordered a cocktail, it was invariably pink and prissy and had some kind of flower on top. It didn’t necessarily fit my profile.

People call you frilly or froufrou. More often than not, you get labeled “girly.”

The implication is that a fresh, carefree — but no less intoxicating — cocktail is somehow less serious than a strong, assertive one. Those kinds of drinks are “manly,” right? Please. The latent sexism is practically potable.

Maybe the problem isn’t us. Maybe the problem is everyone else.

The world thinks that I should be drinking something of my own kind. Something of a dark spirit, sort of plain and unassuming. Something strong and sturdy in a wide glass, largely devoid of personality.

But when I go to a bar, why would I look for something that reinforces my own id? Isn’t variety the spice of life? Come to think of it, ginger is a spice I like in my life, too. And in my drinks.

It’s worth noting that this relationship didn’t happen on purpose. I never went into a bar and ordered a cranberry Cosmo, or some tall, slushy thing in a curvy glass that just screams that it wants to go home with you as a souvenir. This was totally organic. I generally order house-crafted cocktails. Stuff that sounds good to me in the moment. It just so happens that what sounds good to me is cool and colorful.

For a while, I tried to fight it. I would order things that sounded rough-and-tumble in an effort to avoid being the one in the picture with a red drink that had a strawberry and a long straw emerging from the rim. But I order, say, a Bloody Axe Handle, and what do I get? A red drink with a strawberry and a long straw. Every. Single. Time.

It’s gotten to the point that it isn’t surprising anymore.

And how’s this for a theory: What if my predilection for cutesy cocktails isn’t really an indicator of reduced masculinity? What if it’s an inherent statement of my intense feminism? Huh? You didn’t see that argument coming, did you? I’m just trying to help break the old-fashioned-glass ceiling. We can do it!

I don’t try to hide it anymore. And I don’t try to avoid it. I have embraced my libation orientation.

And my friends are coming around, too. They seem disappointed if I order something staid and sober.

But I don’t care.

I just think you’re sweet.