Somehow, against all odds, the workday has ended, and above you is a perfect blue sky. Beads of sweat snake down the side of your dust-caked face, the drenched mark of a brutal day of shifting sacks of concrete and building materials up a difficult pathway through a to-be-completed apartment complex. Your hands are cracked and frayed and sore, and your gelatinous leg muscles are on the verge of surrendering to gravity and the closest available seat. You’ve been wiping the sweat out of your eyes so much that your skin stings to the touch. All you can hear is the sound of heavy breathing and the dull thud of sacks dropped by people too exhausted to put them down carefully. But the gruelling daily ritual of hard labor is behind you, and the cooler of beer is all that matters. Your dirty hand reaches for a bottle, and the relief of finishing the day’s work washes through the marrow of your bones. The label has peeled a little from being immersed in ice, and the dust from your hand turns into mud rivulets thanks to condensation on the surface. The bottle twists and pops, and the chorus of Van Halen’s “Panama” blasts in your head. You bring the bottle to your lips, and the fizzy bubbles tear at your throat, ripping away the dust and the rasp, but still you gulp. The cold burns, but the fiery thirst is doused. Life is good.
Now, this doesn’t necessarily describe me, as I work a fake email job within the confines of an air-conditioned office, or from my relatively stuffy apartment. Though the more hectic days of typing away at my Mac feel like I simultaneously received a lobotomy and smoked a fat crack rock. The blissful first-sip feeling still applies, and I’ll receive a text from a friend asking if I support LGBT, and they clarify that it also stands for “let’s get beers tonight.” Regardless of your profession, workers of the world should unite around the mental peace that comes with putting another slog of a workday behind you. It’s a feeling not marked by any particular thirst, nor do I have a specific deep appreciation for the subtle notes of Coors Light. Something subsides within me, as mind and body switch from a get shit done urgency to everything is finished mode. It’s the refreshing taste of “the job is all done.” As sophisticated and refined as we white-collar yuppies like to imagine ourselves to be, we still can’t resist the primal allure of a cold beer under a gorgeous sunny sky and a light breeze. Historians say this is why our primitive ancestors invented the patio—to kick back and gulp a cold one from a hollowed-out mammoth skull while watching the sun drift into the stars.
Maybe it’s just a dopamine hit, or whatever neurochemical transmitter is responsible for pleasure. Just like you ring the bell and the dog drools, you crack the can and get a little happy. Your brain anticipates the alcohol or the ritual of relaxing. Brain smart. Brian know more than one coming. And despite my fake email job occupying the majority of my weeks, the best first sips undeniably come after a big outdoor activity. The parking lot beer after an intense hike or a long ski day just simply hits different. Summit beers, especially. Hike a few thousand feet up a mountain, crack an IPA or two that have gotten warm, and then start the trek down slightly buzzed. I’ve read on hiking forums that you can keep the beers cooler than ambient temperature by wrapping them in a damp paper towel. But part of me is stubborn, and the warmth makes the beer feel earned, like it reflects the time it took to haul my ass up the mountain. I think it’s called “cowboy cold.”
It’s a magical feeling to finally have what you’ve been craving after a hectic workweek, a rigorous gym sesh, or just piffling everyday responsibilities. Life is hell on earth, hell is other people, work offers nothing but ulcerating homicidal rage and physical exertion, and each day is a perennial existential crisis. But that beer in front of you is your golden nostrum. The world stops for a fleeting moment as that first sip seeps through your lips, that familiar bitter taste crackles up your taste buds. You enter a state of zen, letting go of all that was bothering you, grasping at a state of transient enlightenment as you understand that all stress shall pass—at least until rent is due. Your problems seem trivial, and you’ll wade through them some other time. Right now, this is you contra mundum.
