This past summer marked the first time I traveled without my child in tow. It prompted reflections on traveling as a child and a reflective post followed; but some fun tidbits of life were left out. The following is a completely true account of how canned wine and high-waisted jeans tried to kill me.
We must rewind the tape to one week before I leave for a getaway to New York’s wine country. My husband and I have a night out to see Dermot Kennedy in concert. I have just purchased a comfy sweatshirt with this artist's insignia and am excited to enjoy an evening of music. I search for an adult beverage that seems to go with the evening; and since I loathe beer, canned wine won the day. I have never had canned wine before and do not enjoy a cold red; yet as I let the beverage warm to air temperature, its palate softened. I still am not sure if the properties of the wine's palate improved or if the palate of my taste buds died with each sip; all the same by the end of the can, I decided it was going to be a two can kind of night. (Side note for anyone that does not know me personally, my maximum consumption on any given day is two glasses of wine.) I finish the second can of wine and look down to see our once warm and crispy Old Bay fries, looking cold and soggy, and decide just a few more of those seems like a good idea.
The concert ends, hubby and I return to our car, and we make our way home. Ten minutes from home, I wake from a sound slumber in the passenger seat to search for anything to hold the contents of my stomach which are rapidly revolting against my body and breaking through the barricade of my esophagus. I successfully locate a grocery store bag, that I found later, did have a small tear in the bottom… and we can leave the rest to interpretation. I spend whatever is left of the evening into the morning hours lying on a bathroom floor with a bath mat for a pillow and a towel as a blanket.
It is important to note that our daughter was having her first sleepover at a non-relative’s house. She was elated to have all night to play with her bestie, and I became thankful somewhere around 7 AM that we are close friends with these parents because this concert did not take place on a relaxing weekend night. No, I nauseously awoke to a Wednesday morning in which all parties who did not drink too much canned wine were going to work. I texted said parent- friends and briefly explained my whereabouts (bathroom floor), and kindly asked if on this lovely summer break day my daughter could stay and play for a bit.
To date, no one is sure if each can of wine held more than one glass, if the canning process of wine increases the ABV, or the cold soggy fries were the culprit to my night of unfortunate events. Nonetheless, my stomach churns as I churn this memory into prose.
Part two:
The canned wine debacle was just seven fateful days before a planned wine and wedding weekend to the finger lakes. Not exactly enough time to really tell my body that vineyard galavanting was a good idea, but off I drove.
Night one is a successful sparkling water evening, and I feel confident to make it through the following day's excursions. The first vineyard location includes a scenic lunch and one adult beverage. Then onto the second vineyard to do a wine tasting. A five glass flight of sipping only amounts to, maybe, another half glass of win. However, I know that my limit would be reached at this, also scenic, location. Here is where the fashion of the day nearly takes me down.
I love a high-waisted anything. I have always looked great in a high waisted trouser and am glad for the youngsters to bring back the trend. On this occasion, I have chosen a very on-trend, high-waisted jean with distressed knees and an unfinished hem, the waist of which sits at my rib cage.
So there I sit, in my high-waisted jeans as a glass of wine is being filled with a few sips of the elixir. My stomach begins to remember the canned wine, so I quickly sip water and snack on crackers. A few deep breaths later and the feelings have improved… for a minute. I excuse myself to the restroom hoping that it’s just hot and the air conditioned bathroom will cool all the churning. It does, and I return to my friend and table made from a wine barrel. But that relief is fleeting, and I excuse myself again. Embarrassment mixed with heat and alcohol guides me back to the restroom where I begin to pace and take deeper breaths. It’s not working this time, and I begin to sweat… Yes, things are looking grim as I pray for this to pass. I prepare myself to expel my embarrassment into a public toilet and I have to unbutton my jeans to bend down…
and just like magic there is a stomach gurgle and a wave of relief comes over me. I immediately stand and unbutton another level of my jeans. (This particular pair of pants comes with 5 buttons.) Even more relief washes over me. It seems that my jeans were sitting just a bit too snugly around the top of my stomach, hindering proper digestion. I gather myself and try to fluff my light cardigan around my waste to masque my now clearly undone pants. Upon returning to my table I am unsure what is more embarrassing: that I nearly had to puke or that a pair of jeans nearly took me down. Either way, a one and a half glass of wine day leaves me in a hotel room, in a pair of stretchy pajama pants, napping off the afternoon.
And that my friends is a cautionary tale of alcohol and trendy fashions.