My new neighbourhood is too fancy for the bottle-os to stock the wine I like.

 

I like to pretend to be a woman. And not just a woman in the anatomical sense, but in the sophisticated sense. The kind of woman who knows who to wear a turtle neck without looking like a drama student. The kind of woman who has a passport holder instead of shoving it in an ironic fanny pack. The kind of woman who drinks red wine after a long week at the office.

 

Or, at the very least, the kind of woman who is in Jules Cobb’s circle of friends without being Tom (seriously, just watch Cougar Town already. You don’t have to tell anyone about it).

 

I know I’ve spoken about this before, but I love the idea of being a wine drinker. And while I do love a good champagne/ Trevi mixed with juice, I feel like it’s not the same as drinking a still, thick fermented grape.

 

Sparkling wine is my friend – it encourages me to dance and doesn’t shudder when I drop a c-bomb into casual conversation. It holds my hand through in a room of people I don’t know and whispers into my ear how much more fabulous I am than them. She’s the kind of girl who tells me that the sequinned H&M top designed for 17-year-olds is totally appropriate for whatever occasion I try to pull it off at, but somehow she also guides me through swanky affairs, gently coaxing me to be a lady. Sparkling wine is basically my friend Christina, except for the c-bomb appreciation – in college we actually drafted a semi-legal document detailing the situations in which such a swear was appropriate. My only free pass to say it whenever I wanted was if I were bald, which was a very shrewd way of playing it because my hair is all I have so I would never get rid of it. In hindsight, her switch from science to law comes as no surprise.

 

Anyway, as much as I love sparkling wine, it sometimes doesn’t fit my mood (another way you can tell my friend apart from carbonated alcohol, in case you needed one). Sometimes you need something a little less sparkly. And this is where red wine comes in.

 

My wine is basically alcoholic red cordial. And apparently red cordial isn’t very fancy. I don’t know who has the authority to make the decisions about what is fancy and what is not, but there it is.

 

My wine is so lowbrow that the two bottle shops in my neighbourhood don’t stock it. I didn’t realise I was moving somewhere like this when I wheeled my suitcases through the front door: I saw my flatmate had nice homeowners on Gumtree and could tell she wasn’t interested in harvesting my organs for the black market when I inspected the place, so that was good enough for me.

 

But now I’m getting a little concerned that perhaps I’m not the right person for the area. The people I see at my local supermarket all look like they’ve walked off the set of a Women’s Health photo shoot – snazzy activewear, shaped eyebrows and post-workout bronzer. I however, am usually wearing one of the four pairs of trackpants I bought from Cotton On body in different colours and the baggy jumper I got as a hand-me-down from a friend moving overseas. Hummus still feels like an exotic treat for me. And the sandals I wear to work smell like salty feet and have vomit stains on them.

 

I feel like everyone else is an aged-merlot and I am my $8 sugar syrup.

 

But that’s ok, because no matter how well one might go with a prime cut of steak, mine would make a great sangria, and you wouldn’t even need to water it down with lemonade so you can get good and drunk off a single pitcher.

 

So whether I do finally find a bottle shop within walking distance that stocks my fermented shame juice or I have to pick up a case of it from a sketchy place in the city after work and balance six plus bottles of wine on my lap during peak hour on the train, I’m going to carry my wine to my door with my head held high.

 

Because I don’t have to be everyone’s glass of wine. As long as I can stomach myself, that’s all that matters.