Or so I used to think.
This is a story of a wine crush. But this is not a love story. It's the sad story of a wine crush worse than unrequited, for I had a taste. And a taste of honey's worse than none at all.
A few months back at a dear friend's going away party, I had a truly marvelous Tempranillo at my favorite wine bar. It was earthy like nothing I'd ever tasted, but bursting with bright strawberry and raspberry flavors as well. It was a god-damn picnic in a glass. The party happened to be at my favorite (closest)(but also genuinely favorite) wine bar, which updates their wine list constantly. Btw, Britt P, I still owe you like 20 bucks from that night. We're overdue for me to pay it back in drinks. Hit me up, girl.
Anyway, by the time I realized I'd never get this wine off my mind, I didn't know the name of it. Just the grape. I was the Prince after the ball in Cinderella, only instead of a glass slipper, I had only a vague understanding of what I'd tasted and a limited vocabulary to describe it. I basically went back a few months later and was like, "hey, who was that girl I met at that really crowded party and her shoes were like clear or maybe black or maybe I actually didn't see her shoes maybe I'm talking about her glasses? I'm not sure she wore glasses. Can you just tell me if there were any hot girls at the party?" But there were a lot of hot girls at the party. Obviously. It's a party. Who would start a wine bar if they weren't going to have a ton of hot girl wine equivalents?
The cool thing about Tempranillos is they can be light and bright or murky and sexy or anywhere in between. Tempranillo is the chief grape in the Rioja region, where this crazy complex and gold laced treat is from. And like Spanish people, and people of all races, there is a lot of variety among them. Cause of not racism.
But I was a bit wine racist. I thought I could fill the hole in my heart left by my wine crush Tempranillo with some other Tempranillo. Behold, said other Tempranillo:
Ok, so pretty, right? And I gotta say, this wine was DTF. The Cala Blanca 2010 Tempranillo, which I picked up 2 bottles of at the 5 cent wine sale, is full of smoke and black cherry. It's not complicated; it's not messing around. It's here to fill a void and we both know it. It's not about remembering it in the morning. It's about not being alone tonight. I should probably date more.
As satisfying as it was in the moment, as strong and as powerful its more immediately appealing flavor was, it wasn't my wine crush. The next day I woke up feeling more alone than before, having not slept quite as well as I would with my true wine crush, and nowhere near as well as I would have slept alone (sober).
I guess what I'm realizing is, yes, if you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with. But that one shouldn't be just anyone. It should be you, by yourself, appreciating your own slumber and adoring your own dreams until true love comes along. As good as this wine was, and it was good, it wasn't worth it. I should have held out.
And maybe so should the wine. If it were not an object completely controlled by my actions. But still, maybe it should have. Because on Sunday, I brought my second bottle to my writers group. And with its charming bottle design and lush fruit flavors, I swear, a couple of my friends started crushing on it.
There's a lid for every pot. Unless you lose the lid, like the lid gets in a car accident or meets a younger, hotter pot, but then it's still ok because you have a trump card to play every time someone else is complaining. But generally speaking from the hopeful depths of my heart, there's some-wine out there for everybody. Maybe there's even someone crushing on me, not in spite of the fact that I just said "some-wine," but because of it.
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