I’m currently staring deep into the eyes of a stemless glass of Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon. I don’t know what year it is, because frankly, publicizing the year of this wine on the bottle would only decrease its price further than the bodega already had it marked down.
Paused on the television in front of me is “Somm: Into The Bottle,” a follow-up to the 2012 documentary about a bunch of obsessive foodies preparing to become Master Sommeliers or something. I was a little buzzed when I watched it, so I’m not entirely sure. The only reason I poured this glass of red in the first place is because you can’t physically watch this particular documentary without having a glass of wine sitting within arm’s reach. It would be like watching “Comedians In Cars Getting Coffee” without craving espresso. Physically and mentally impossible.
But I’m not sitting at a dining room table. And I’m not slouched into my couch or reclined in a chair with my feet perched on an ottoman. No. I’m sitting in bed with an alcoholic beverage next to me – an act so filthy that society might possibly label it as a “problem,” whatever that means.
It seems unfair to me. Unfair that drinking a glass of 13.5% ABV beverage with notes of ripe blackberry and blueberry with a touch of vanilla is considered to be “wrong” because beds are where you’re supposed to “sleep,” or something. People will scold you for bringing your PHONE to bed, let alone a glass of cab.
I mean, let’s think about this for a second. Let’s REALLY think about this for a second.
Where IS it acceptable to drink wine? A vineyard? Well, that’s nothing short of drinking in the middle of a field like a 19th-century vagrant who missed out on hopping yet another train. A dinner party? Sure, if you like surrounding yourself with boisterous lushes who won’t let you get a word in and will judge you when you “accidentally” fill your glass up to the brim. Huddled up on the couch under a blanket in a chunky Olivia Pope-style cashmere turtleneck sweater? Completely acceptable. Well, that is if you abide by society’s constraints of what a “couch” actually is, because when you think about it, a couch is simply a shallow bed with a weird headboard. But I’m no Frank Lloyd Wright, so what do I know?
But somehow it’s widely accepted that one can sit on said couch and casually pour your glass fuller and fuller until – oops, would you look at that – the bottle’s gone. Once you take things to the bedroom, though? You’re a wine-o. A boozer. An alchy. You’re in the same class as the smelly guy at the gas station buying a pint of Popov to keep his buzz going from the night before.
And that, my friends, is just un-fucking-fair.
Who am I – nay, who are we – hurting by drinking in the warmth of a down comforter while falling asleep to something we’ve watched ten times over on Netflix? The biggest victim here is my stark white sheets fearing the wrath of the red-staining devil’s juice taunting them from my bedside table. Or that same unfinished birch bedside table itself, which would probably stain should one of my sips leave a little droplet that falls down the side of the glass and collects at the base, leaving a permanent ring of plum proportions. Or my teeth, which could probably stand to be brushed again after that last third of a glass of red. Those are the real victims here.
Me? I’m trying to get a relaxing buzz before going hard in the REM cycle. You? You’re jealous you didn’t have the moxie to do this yourself. Society? Fuck ’em. They’re the same people who tell you it’s “unacceptable” to bring a Tervis of sauvignon blanc on ice to the grocery store and look down upon you if there’s a little beer in your Big Gulp at the neighborhood Little League games. They’re no better than you or me.
I’d continue, but I have to run downstairs and pour another glass. Because lord knows that if you’re bringing the bottle upstairs, you’ve definitely got a problem then. .