Now, as many of you know, I don’t drink.
Well, usually, I don’t drink. (I have a long standing, nearly three-decade habit of not drinking anything alcoholic.)
To be clear, I don’t have any moral or medical oppositions to alcohol, I’ve just never really found anything that I enjoy drinking.
When I spend time with WF, however, all bets are apparently off.
Ms. WF will be joining me for an outing to the local Renaissance Festival in July, and I offered to dress her for the occasion. This, of course, required the in-home equivalent of a shopping trip – which means letting her peruse my extensive collection of festival costuming, try everything on, and select which combination she wants to wear for the actual event.
Apparently trying on that much clothing requires wine.
It’s a red wine. It’s been hanging out in my pantry since February. It’s made from grapes grown on the slopes of a dormant volcano.
That’s right: Red. Volcano. Wine.
So, of course, I wanted to try it (following my long standing habit of at least trying a variety of drinks, especially the one’s that sound interesting), even though I expected to hate it.
Shockingly, I didn’t hate it. In fact, I didn’t hate it so much that I had at least an entire glass of it over the course of the evening.
I may even go out and pick up another bottle or two.