IPAs and Insights: A Christmas Story

By the time I made it through customs, it was Christmas Eve.

Let me set the scene: I had just returned from a semester in Florence, where I learned more about avoiding touchy Italian men than I did Renaissance art. I had spent weekends escapading through European cities, feral for knowledge and culture over nighttime debaucheries. Back home in Chicago, I was ready for domestic drama.

Christmas night, I found myself at “The Cubby Bear” with my mom—a tradition we have unknowingly stumbled into the past two years. A Chicago good time in the heart of Wrigleyville, “The Cubby Bear” was alive with the spirits of middle-aged women fawning over their boyfriends “who were in the band”. I suppose it was their version of holiday cheer.

A 55-year-old woman with a pixie cut and round classes, my mom may look innocuous, but she is a firecracker. Having her heyday as a singer in The Tossers, she is seasoned in faking an Irish accent and throwing back Guineesses. This night could be no different.

Before we arrived at the bar, a little birdy (my mother) told me that my middle school crush may be there right now. So, I entered the bar and reluctantly forked over a $25 cover charge. As one does with mild anxiety and direct access to alcohol, I beelined to the shots. The liquid courage burned my throat and directed my focus.

In middle school, I was an oddball with colorful glasses.

Circa 2014, I went as Doctor Who for Halloween. Wielding a ‘sonic’ screwdriver, wearing checkered suspenders, and rocking a blunt bob, I failed to beat the allegations that I was not a closeted lesbian. One fateful evening, my crush turned to me and asked me a deep question.

“Molly, can I ask you something?” “Yes,” I said, anticipating something big. “Are you a lesbian? You can tell me if you are.” I paused. I had a raging crush on the boy. “I don’t know,” I responded, feigning uncertainty.

Fast forward to 2023, and we were across from one another in a dimly lit bar, nursing IPAs. He threw out a deeply personal question, just for the hell of it: “Why didn’t it work out with the frat guy?” He asked. “Well, I met my boyfriend while we were talking.” He nodded, understandingly. “And he was flaky. I mean, what can I do with a flake?” I said, looking around for answers. His eyes widened with a sense of amusement.

My candidness was certainly new to him, but his questioning wasn’t for me.

We gained momentum talking about life, college, relationships, middle school, and our impending New Year plans.

“I’m going out clubbing with my childhood friend, Daniel, who I recently reconnected with,” I told him. “I used to have a crush on him,” I said, breaking out into a quick laugh and leaning back in my bar stool.

While we were talking, my mom migrated from the dance floor to us. She rested her body against the wall, striking up a conversation about my time in middle school. “Yeah, that was a difficult time. We weren’t able to pay your school tuition anymore.”

She paused. I held my breath, preparing for what she could say next.

“Thank god you did so well, and they let you stay there,” She finished, sensing tension and wanting to alleviate it.

“Thank you,” I said, nodding. He nodded, too. She walked off and continued with her festivities. And we continued to talk without another hiccup.

So, that oddball girl grew up. And finally lived down the awkwardness of adolescence.

But she may never escape the fear of mom’s embarrassment— proof that some things never change, no matter how many IPAs are involved.