The morning started out spectacularly. Packed into the comforts of an Oregon Coast beach house, a group of friends and I recounted the events from the night before, all nursing slight hangovers. We were all laughing as I casually lifted a glass to my lips and took a vigorous gulp. The room fell silent.

“That’s fucking disgusting,” one person cracked, trying to disguise malice with a feigned smile.

“Seriously, what are you, 10?” asked another.

The chorus grew until all but one friend was ganging up on my beverage choice like some sort of pitchfork-wielding mob swarming a decrepit castle, or a gaggle of puritans who caught the local minister holding hands with a comely widow. Epithets were flung. Gagging noises were made. I retreated in despair to another room to finish my drink, then sheepishly returned.

My name is Andy Kryza, and I am a 36-year-old man who loves milk. And in an age where everybody feels extremely comfortable telling others what they should or should not ingest, milk shame is my scarlet letter, flaunted for all to see as a white mustache on my lip.

I come from a generation raised on cow’s milk, one consistently told it does a body good. A generation that strived to promote healthy bones and sterling smiles. Yet the minute a child becomes an adult, suddenly drinking milk becomes a sign of suspended adolescence. It prompts glares from strangers and friends alike. Hell, the friends who dogpiled on my hangover milk are Wisconsinites, people more associated with dairy than Blizzards. They sat there housing cheese and talking about custard, yet the minute I poured a glass of glorious, ice-cold 2%, they turned on me. It was weird and sudden, but it wasn't unfamiliar.

Milk shame is real, friends, and it’s ruining the dairy-loving experiences of so, so many people. Have you ever gone into a restaurant and ordered a tall glass of milk to go with a steak? I have, and you’d have thunk I ordered a New York strip extra well done when the waiter brought it over with a side of stink eye. Have you ever, in adulthood, asked for a glass of milk to go with a slice of pizza? I have. It’s actually my favorite pairing with pizza. And yet each time I’ve ordered it, I’ve been denied, to the point that I’ll sometimes go to a convenience store and get a little bottle of milk to drink shamefully with my meal. At places bougie and lowbrow, it's always the same. My only safe haven has been diners, and even there, waitresses will usually deliver it with a "where's your kid?"

Now that I have a kid, she drinks soy milk. She thinks the real deal is weird too. I have a toddler who was predestined to throw milk shade.