Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Wine, Pandora, Words and Papers

Just in the event that some of my readers might be wondering where the "neurotic" part of my title comes from, allow me to offer this evening as an example. (Of course, I suppose that some days my readers might be wondering where the "classy" part comes in...but, alas, tonight does not bring proof of that.)

The random memories that washed over my mind earlier today after running the streets of my former hometown have now turned sour. The memories that, only hours before, made me smile at the freedom of youth, have, now, brought a melancholy mood to my evening.

My one glass of wine, reserved till the little ladies were safely stowed away in bed, has turned to three. With no one but Pandora to accompany my mood swing, my solitary hours at the computer, shuffling graded papers, are now welling tears in my eyes and a sadness in my gut.

I hear myself asking more and more frequently, "Is this age?" Wondering, "Is this how it is supposed to be?"

Does reminiscing always bring a bittersweet taste to your mouth? Or, better yet, should it?

I sip my wine and realize I'm not unlike this evening's Zinfandel. Somewhere between red and white. Somewhere, blurred, between youth and maturity. Somewhere, blended, between happiness and affliction.

In my mind I can still see, feel, explore the vineyard from which I hail. I, too, can imagine the table I will one day grace. The celebration I will punctuate with a toast. A sip. A smile. A smooth warmth.

But, for tonight at least, I'm trapped within a barrel, deep below the light of day. In a cool, damp cellar. Waiting for my day to breathe.

**Oh, and yes, I'm just so neurotic that I cannot let this go unsaid...let this be my "make-up work" from my day of NaBloPoMo missed. I can let my guilt go now.**

Photo credits:


  1. I love this post. And nice grammar and spelling after three glasses of wine, lady. Bra-vo!

    I think it's a "thirties" thing. I look in the mirror and inspect my face for wrinkles and rogue hairs gone gray, but I have nothing to show for the aches in my bones and that melancholy. There's no outward sign that I am ripening (fermenting?).

    But it's in there. And that's why the flying spaghetti monster created wine.

    Luv you, Jens.

  2. I love your analogy. I think the past has a tendency to do that, especially the older you get, and even more so when it's been pockmarked with tragedy. *hugs*


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