Sasee Magazine

I don’t like wine. Okay. There, I’ve said it. In public. To the masses. I only like to go to a wine bar if it is with a person who is whining. That way, I can offer some cheese and eat some myself.

I am opposite of a wine snob. If someone asks me what kind of wine I like, the only comment I can say is, “The kind that doesn’t taste like someone soaked their feet in it for four years.”

For a long time I just told people wine made me ill, as in, “Wine makes me have to go to the bathroom, NOW.” At which point the offer of wine was rescinded, and I went on my way with my diet drink.

Then, a few years ago, before I became wise and wore comfortable shoes and decided that most of the world is wearing its underpants pulled up to its armpits, I thought I would try, in earnest, to look cool and drink wine and talk myself into liking it.

Learning the names of a few that I could tolerate was my starting point. To my delight, I found that Riesling didn’t give me the vapors and cause my face to react like I had just been forced to swallow varnish. It was fun drinking out of a stemmed glass, swirling it round and sticking my nose in it to smell the bouquet. (Yeah, right. If I want to smell a bouquet, I smell roses.)

Each sip I took it was just like me driving in Ireland. Every few seconds I said, “Stay on the left.” But with wine, I kept repeating, “You like this stuff. You look like a grownup drinking it.”

The real test came after noting there is a hierarchy in wine drinking. White, a semi-sweet Riesling, isn’t the stuff that wine snobs relish. Nope. They like the red wine. The kind that while drinking it you are convinced that you are licking the un-sanded, wood side of a barn. And the aftertaste splinters your tongue.

Merle Streep’s acting had nothing on me when I would say, “Yes. I taste a tad bit of blackberry. And my, isn’t this full-bodied?” Then I would have to find my Motrin for my headache and blot my nose with powder as something in the wine caused my Roscea to blossom into a real bouquet of redness.

A friend of mine said there is nothing like a glass of red wine and a steak. I agree with her…about the steak. She said the wine relaxes her. But it doesn’t relax me. Wine causes me to jitter and to lift my shirt over my head. And after that, I cry. Wine makes me think nobody loves me, that I have an incurable disease and the bridge up the road isn’t nearly as high and dangerous to jump off as some people believe.

It astounds me when I read about, or see on television, a person who has a wine cellar with 42,473 bottles of wine in it. Like that makes them more cultured and refined than myself.

Anyone who bragged about having 42,473 bottles of Bud Light in a closet would, by most standards, be considered to have a pretty bad drinking problem.

While out to dinner with some friends recently, a bottle of wine was ordered for the table. Each of us had a glassful. The wine tasted like peach pits had fermented in rubbing alcohol. Since we were guests, I said nothing. I gave a pleasant smile in gratitude for the small portion I was served.

I know it might not be considered elegant, but after a recent talk with myself and my taste buds, I have decided that it is time for me to stop whining about wine, put a cork in it, stop with the sour grapes and when someone asks me what kind of wine I like, I tell the truth.

I’m allergic to wine.

It’s just easier that way.