Originally published din The Clifton Courier, August 1, 2018 

I have become a wine drinker.

Now, this may sound like an old statement, since I’ve been a subscriber to the delights that come from a goon sack for about a decade. My experiences with the sweet nectar that is Passion Pop have been well documented – if not in this column, in the sordid transcript that is my private message history. And let’s not forget my affair with red wine and lemonade. Free room-temperature wine, a bottle of Kirks and me; a scandalous Ménage à trois if there ever was one.

Yes, I have been a drinker of wine for many years.

However, I’ve only recently become “a wine drinker”.

And by that I mean, “someone who drinks wine because they actually enjoy the taste and are not just guzzling it down because it’s free/cheap/the only thing available”. Yes, dear readers, this phrasing indicates a concept somewhat foreign to me, a person who owns a shirt that says “Who farted?”. And that concept is sophistication.

Other words come into play in this context, such as maturity, class and propriety.

These characteristics are, in my mind, associated with one who enjoys a nice glass of red after dinner. To me, that’s the pinnacle of adulthood. When I picture someone sipping on a wine, I picture a person who has their life together. Perhaps they’re wearing tasteful pearls. Maybe they’re talking about art and the current political situation in a witty, intellectual conversational tapestry. They probably have a killer recipe for beef ragu.

And for some time now I have wanted to be able to achieve this feat of grownup-dom, but I just haven’t been able to get there. Wine has always tasted rather yucky to me. And yes, I’m well aware that using the word “yucky” to describe my displeasure at the taste of wine is especially juvenile and crass, thus perfectly illustrating my disposition.

But in the past few months, something has changed. I can’t put my finger on it. Perhaps it was my desire to be tipsy while riding around Paris overriding my dislike for chardonnay. Maybe it was the free wine on the table at a group dinner. Perhaps it was the heavily discounted drop at my sister’s bridal shower.

Or maybe it was a natural thing, like a second hormonal change. Something after puberty and before menopause, when your body ticks over into a new phase of life. Because, it would seem, that maybe I have left behind the reckless ways of my youth and am charging valiantly into maturity.

For example, I have read The Barefoot Investor. I went on a winery tour last weekend. And last night I had wine and cheese with a few former colleagues.

That certainly sounds quite grown up to me. And I am tempted to think that, perhaps, I have turned a corner onto a path leading away from the hot mess I used to be. I mean, I own a pair of loafers for heaven’s sake.

There very well could be a second coming of puberty after all. I have begun the process of becoming a serious, mature woman. Level-headed, dignified, and demure.

But then, when I pick apart the above statement, there are some cracks that begin to show.

For example, I do own a copy of The Barefoot Investor, but I’ve yet to enact a single principle from the pages. I thought about it, but when he said something about having a kitty of $2000 saved somewhere, I hit a roadblock. He told his readers to sell things they didn’t use to make up that money – but I have nothing of value. No one wants my Harry Potter figurines or collection of brash second-hand cardigans. So my financial future remains very much in the seedling phase.

And yes, I did go on a winery tour and ate tapas and discussed grapes. We all looked great in our understated and sensible winewear. But, afterwards, I changed into my sloppiest hoodie, pulled on a pair of track pants and forced Lee Kernaghan on my friends by way of blasting him through the speakers. It seems I also sent multiple videos of myself yelling the words – or at least, the words I was able to articulate – of High Country to various acquaintances from the floor of my friend’s living room.

And that whole thing about a nice cheeseboard with workmates was really a quick grab of whatever was on special at the supermarket. After several glasses, the night descended into emotive renditions of Celine Dion and me doing a Tim Tam slam with red wine. Yes, I sucked red wine through a Tim Tam.

I may be changing, yes, but it seems I have a bit of a way to go before I become the tasteful pearl-necklace-wearing grownup woman I have no doubt *coughs* I will one day become.