Nine hours days, trying to fit in as much work as I can before I take off for a trip that has my heart both pounding and honestly…fretting. “Sam can you work the long shift on Wednesday?” my response, “Oh yeah no problem”. I am a product of my environment, my mother’s daughter and I will put off whatever needs attending to on my end when someone else needs me….but truth be told, part of that gives me a bit of an excuse as to why. Why I wasn’t dressed to the nines. Why my legs aren’t shaved. Why my nails are shaped like uneven humps and go unpolished. Why my teeth aren’t blaringly white….any why can be answered with, “I was just too busy”.
I started to feel the little nibble in the back of my mind, the little glimpses of, “How long have those deep scratches been on the lenses on my glasses?” the “Holy crap my clothes all suck” about a week before I was to leave for this trip. Felt it before I met Michael Hughes, (Midtown Stomp) and Ben Carter, (Benito’s Wine Reviews) as well. Just something about being yourself in front of people that don’t have all the information, aren’t given the option to give you a once over and decide if they want to continue that makes me a little uneasy. Makes me alarmingly aware of all my glaring outward flaws and that right there, well it makes my tummy feel all squishy.
Got home tonight and instead of carefully inspecting my clothing, mapping out my outfits, I had a couple glasses of wine and ran outside to hunt for crickets with Tyler. My loving and ever adorable Tyler that could give a rat’s ass what I look like, (although when I curl my hair he thinks it’s cute…he told me) and doesn’t bat an eye when he comes to my door at whatever in the morning and I am makeup-less and in my jammies. He is there to see if I want to play, if his Sam wants to play and the me that he loves is the same dressed, made up, in a cute little shirt or in a giant pair of ripped up jeans and sporting bed head. I think I was seeking his laughter and inquisitive chatter as a hug this evening, a reminder of sorts…it’s me that he comes to see. Not my face, my body, my clothes or my hair…just me.
“I would love it if you brought a Chablis that might change my mind” a comment from one of the people I am going to meet this weekend. One of the reasons I am still writing, still feeling vibrant and wanted. He was asking for something that for a brief second made my stomach cinch up and roll with knots. Could I change his mind? Could I bring a wine that I knew would shift his palate or in any way make him love what it is I love? No. The answer was no. I don’t stock wines that might shimmy between old world and new. Wines that don’t wear a place name or show each and every little piece of themselves and aren’t trying to be anything they are not. I walked my little Burgundy department and as I poured over my Chablis I knew…I couldn’t change his mind. The things he loves, the richness, the full texture, the succulent fruit, well those things are not…and should not be what shines in the wines I bring in the store. Just as I loathe hearing, “It’s Burgundian” when someone pours me a California wine, I don’t want to hear, “It’s Carneros like” when someone pours me a Chablis. It isn’t what it isn’t and we should love it for that.
It was so easy for me to just write back and say, “I can’t change your mind but I can bring you a Chablis that drives me wild, makes my bits tingle in the way its flavors remind me of spending a day at the beach” Just ask that he appreciate it for what it was, understand why it pleases me and be open to learning what it is that moves me. Knowing all that I do about him and feeling secure that while it might not be his thing he was willing and open to listen, to hear and feel me….just as he has been for, shit close to a year now? So as I stood in front of my closet, fussed over my basket of face goo trying to determine which things would show better, make me show better….make the quickest “impression” I had to laugh, like really laugh. I was making myself a nut job trying to “place” in a blind “tasting”. Stupid….
Chablis should never be judged for being a Chardonnay. It should be recognized, appreciated or not for what it is, a cold climate white wine that is lean, savory and often full of racy acid. It should never be called Chardonnay, it’s Chablis, has been for a very long time and while some in the region have lost their minds and tried to compete with the wine equivalent of the Kardashian’s there are still some folks that are in their jammies….without makeup and I for one, love them for it.
I just zipped up my suitcase full of my lame and ugly clothes and I have this boarding pass in my hand. A warm climate woman that is…just what she is, about to board a plane and finally be face to face with some cats that have read, known and seen her just this side of bare naked but never seen her before. I can’t let myself be held up to some unrealistic standard, never have here and not sure what or why, (other than being a woman) I let this plague me. Let this trip make me fearful and insecure. They have felt my footprint, know my history and something about all of that makes them adore me anyway…
I’m on my way guys and I just wanted to say….thank you. Thank you pushing me, challenging me. For reading and writing me even though I don’t quite fit. My odd shape, my um…mug, my clumsy attempt at girlie, my French leaning palate. You still come, still read, still comment and your support of me and what it is I do here, well it made me feel like that bottle of Chablis I am bringing to share with Charlie. It is, I am…what it is.