You’re going to have to share me.
Now before you object, hear me out.
White Wine, you were my first love. When I was young and the only alcohol I enjoyed was cheap fraternity party beer and the occasional tropical concoction, you took my hand and put your classy little self into it. Yes, you tasted a lot like salad dressing. The girls I ran with at the time didn’t have the money or palate to invite your more affluent relatives. But they all looked so adult that I swallowed you with an almost imperceptible grimace. Yes, the cat-with-a-hairball gag might have given me away. That bite in the back of my throat was my first hint that being an adult might not be as awesome as I thought… until the third glass. Then everything was cool.
You had won me over, White. Even if each tryst I had to shotgun the first two glasses in order to properly rekindle our relationship. I wanted to run to Halo.com and get a million personalized wine glasses, imprinted with my love, and share them with my troglodyte, beer-swilling friends. But, the Internet hadn’t been invented yet.
Red Wine, things were more difficult in our relationship. At each of the subsequent parties I guzzled down White, but I saw you, watching me from the corner of the room. You sat by the fire, resting in your $15 wrought iron, ivy patterned wine rack from Sears, like you had all the time in the world. Like you would only get better. (Which, in your case, wasn’t true because they put you next to the fire place, which was a stupid place to keep someone who is best when he keeps his cool.)
These girls didn’t know how to handle you.
Though you were probably half-skunked from the heat by the time they opened you, the Red drinkers at the table lorded over us White girls. And by “White girls” I mean girls drinking white wine, not Caucasian girls, though we were white girls, well, actually one of us was part African-American and another was Asian, and now that I think about it, we should have been taking photos for college brochure stock photography instead of wasting our time yapping about the book of the month…
But I digress.
I was jealous. I’ll admit it. The Red girls had a leg up on the White girls and I wanted to take the next step. I poured myself a glass of you, Red. I smelled your bouquet. I sipped.
You were warm.
Wait…warm? Why would anyone drink warm alcohol? I thought, as I quietly placed you behind a plant and hoped no one noticed or asked “Hey, who left their wine here? Behind the plant?” in their whiny little Disney mouse voice they got when they were drunk.
Yes, I’m talking about you, Stephanie.
But over time and with repeated attempts, eventually you swept me off my feet, Red.
Turns out, that third glass is really the trick to conquering just about anything. Also, paying more than $5.99 helps quite a bit.
I know you were upset White, when I abandoned you almost completely. Red had captured my heart and he would not let go. Sure, cocktails came and went. I had a brief flirtation with Bourbon. Red Bull and Vodka once double teamed me and left me for dead. But I always came back for Red.
But White, it’s summer! And it is time again for our annual summer fling. When the temperatures rise I know it is time for us to renew our romance. And I think Red understands. Drinking warm liquid outside on a porch in 80+ degree heat isn’t refreshing, even if it is technically delicious. See, you’re still delectable Red, don’t think you’re not. You just belong in the house with the air conditioning.
So boys, you see, you’re just going to have to share me for a few months. And yes, White, I know you’re still a little bitter. I know this because when I spend those lazy summer evenings with you I always wake up feeling like I was hit with an oak barrel. You get your petty revenge, you scamp.
Still, I can’t help but love you. I can’t help but love you both.
Even if I’m technically married to vodka.
Happy 4th of July!
( a day early )
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