Soooo, you’re either going to think I am a total alcoholic, or vigorously nod your head in agreement, thankful you’re not alone in this potentially alcoholic behavior (trust me, you’re fiiine).

I started drinking wine after I bought my house, mainly because it felt more classy and socially acceptable after a particularly long day at work (or a short day, I’m not picky) to open a bottle of wine than to crack a beer (even the mere sound of opening is more mature), before settling in for a quiet evening at home, (though I’m not entirely sure why I care about the socially acceptable part, since drinking any alcoholic beverage in your home, alone, is as anti-social as it gets), especially in Wisconsin. In Wisconsin, beer drinking carries a certain reputation. There is a time (always) and place (everywhere) for that kind of consumption, but I was a grown up now. An adult with a house that came with a sweet wine rack, which beckoned me to fill the pretty upside down glasses hanging like delicate bats every time I wandered into the kitchen.

And so, the wine flowed.

A few weeks into my new, super sophisticated life choice, I realized a slight flaw in my master plan on the road to adulthood. (I should note the textual message below is from last week; I bought my house in 2011. I’ve clearly been “dealing” with this reality for several years. I’d also like to note the seven hour time difference between me and Jeremy. He responds very quickly to matters of import.)

Bottles of beer sit patiently in the fridge, all wrapped up in their individual packaging, always knowing their purpose, quietly submitting to fate the moment clammy fingers surround their middle. And seriously, who keeps track of how many single-serving beers consumed anyway. But wine, man, wine is constantly in your face.

Sometimes it encourages you (like when it’s a full bottle): Heeey there buddy, you look like you’ve had a stressful day. Come on, let’s relax together. That’s right. Juuuust like that.

Sometimes it challenges you (like when you’ve reached the crucial half bottle moment): It’s your call man, I don’t want to get involved. I’ll just be here…waiting.

Sometimes it makes you feel guilty (like when you pour that third glass, vowing this is that last one): Seriously? You’re just going to leave that one glass? Actually, less than one glass with the way you pour, lush. 

Sometimes it judges you (like when it sees you eyeing up a second bottle of…anything): Okay, so like, this was fun for awhile, but don’t you think you’ve had enough? You think I don’t see you checking out that Moon Man in the fridge? And seriously? You’re moving to beer? I thought you were classy.

There’s a reason people drink beer. And if you haven’t learned by now, I have a huge personification problem.

But I guess it beats having to share a bottle with someone, where you both get your two glasses and call it a day, neither person wanting to suggest another bottle in fear of coming across as an alcoholic (though why does two people splitting two bottles of wine seem like less of an issue than one person drinking one bottle of wine, even though everyone is consuming the same amount of wine?!), no delightful conversations with wine bottles to be had.

Just another perk to being single.

{Dedicated to my dear friend Jeremy, who taught me it’s okay to drink the whole bottle sometimes, my sister Tessa, as we’ve coaxed each other through the wine guilt phase repeatedly (it’s your birthday Tessa, drink ALL the wine), and Lindsey, one of my most favorite wine drinking partners ever. This goes without saying, but thanks for nodding vigorously through this entire post.}