Tomorrow, B-man and I are attending a wine tasting brunch that ends this year's season.
You know, like football.
My first date with B-man was a wine tasting, and we have been part of this particular group for 25 years. To be honest, it doesn't fit me as well as it once did. B-man still enjoys these events, however, so we compromise and attend a few each year.
This time, for reasons I can't really explain, I feel a little anxious about going.
First of all, the whole thing is pretty La Tee Da, held at Deer Valley ski resort, way up in the mountains. I have no idea what to wear (one must be ready for sunny, chilly, rainy or breezy weather). Plus, I'm at this weird in-between size, which complicates things.
Whiny.
When we arrive at the lodge, we will mingle for about an hour on the patio and try to avoid the pompous ass talking too loud about his most recent trip to the orient chit-chat with the others.
Just give me the champagne and keep it coming.
Once we get inside, the situation improves. Tables of eight polka dot the room. Food is delivered with great aplomb, always creative and elegant. B-man and I exchange one-liners and laugh together.
At the end, the chef and sommelier bow as we applaud them. We're all tipsy by then, so there's whistling, too.
Perhaps in my 20's, I was more enamored by what I viewed as the high life and more interested in belonging. But now, most wine tastings feel like an exercise in pretension where appearances reign supreme and all conversations play out the same.
It makes me want to drop an f-bomb at brunch.
Muscs Koublai Khan comes to mind as a potential perfume choice.
Talk about subliminal messages.
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