I am an adult woman. I eat food and I drink drinks. I think I do an ok job of it. But apparently, men don’t think so. And so they try to explain to me what I’m doing wrong. These are some of those times.
When ordering a frozen margarita: “Just so you know, even though it doesn’t taste like it, there’s actually a lot of alcohol in here—as much as in a margarita on the rocks. So you don’t want to drink too many of these.”
Oh, but I do.
When eating a meatball parm sandwich at a Yankees game: “You’re not going to be able to finish that whole thing!”
Oh, but I am.
When drinking a Lime-A-Rita at the same Yankees game: “It’s smart that you’re just sticking with lemonade. Too much beer in this heat would go straight to your head.”
Oh, but the Lime-A-Rita sports an 8 percent ABV and I’m already on my second. And I’ve never felt better.
When carrying a tray full of nachos and beer to my seat at Citi Field: “Don’t eat what you can’t even carry, honey.”
Oh, but I am carrying it. The only way I wouldn’t be carrying it is if I threw the whole tray at you.
When ordering a burger AND fries AND a milkshake: “I hope you’re sharing this with someone! It’s a lot of food for one little lady.”
Oh, but I’m not a lady.
When buying peaches at the farmer’s market: “Be careful with those. They’re so juicy you’re probably going to make a mess all over your face.”
Oh, interesting. Thanks for assuming that I’ve never eaten a peach before.
When putting hot sauce on my hallaca at Smorgasburg Queens: “You’re not going to be able to handle all that heat! Come back for another once you realize you’ve ruined that one.”
Oh, but I am a motherfucking dragon and can handle any amount of fire I feel like handling.
When eating a piece of cinnamon raisin toast spread with crunchy peanut butter and drizzled with sriracha in my own damned home: “There’s no way that tastes good. Don’t you want something else?”
Oh, yeah: I want to eat your heart that I’ve removed from your body with a spoon. Well, after I cover it with crunchy peanut butter and drizzle it with sriracha, that is.
Follow Kristin Iversen on twitter @kmiversen