sueeeus

But spilt wine   Now that’s a different matter entirely.

Last night I stopped for some milk and got sidetracked by that most enticing smell of freshly baked French bread.  It was still warm from the oven, so I couldn’t resist.  Once home, I lamented the absence of wine in the house.  How I love a glass of wine with fresh French bread!  After a little foraging, Fortuna smiled upon me, and a bottle emerged from the deepest darkest depths of the pantry.  I was delighted.  Delighted!  But what happened to my wine glasses   Mr. Gadget insists that I donated them in my last kitchen purge.  Honestly, I have no recollection of such a deed.  Especially considering how much I love a glass of red wine in a giant round goblet.  Aesthetics.  So important.  Helpful as he is, he retrieved a heavy crystal goblet from the far reaches of the cupboard.  I’ve kept them for sentimentality’s sake.  They were, after all, my first goblets, purchased twenty years ago in my fresh from poverty transformation to a young urban professional. 

Ah, how pleasant that first glass.  As the second.  Deciding to show some restraint, I tried to replace the cork in the bottle, to save it for a rainy day (i.e., tomorrow).  After a short struggle, the bottle claimed victory, leaping from my grasp and clattering to the counter with a loud clang, the precious nectar of the vine splaying this way and that.  Glug, glug, glug, how quickly the crimson pool spread.

I burst into tears and sobbed like a child.

It wasn’t so much the spilt wine, as it was the accumulation of recent bumbles.  Earlier that evening I had dropped a stack of cooling racks, cookie sheets, and a chartreuse ceramic lasagne dish, the latter which shattered into a thousand pieces.  Disappointed   Yes.  Distraught   No. 

Recently as well, I lost my grasp on a stack of dishes at the edge of the sink, and dropped them all.  They tumbled into the sink with a loud crash.  Surprisingly, nothing broke. 

Earlier in the day, I had some vertigo.  Add to that some tingling in the hands and shortness of breath.  Google is most unceremonious and insensitive as it serves frightening phrases such as brain tumor and bipolar disorder, both which are very real experiences of people I love, neither of which apply to me.  (It’s not denial.  It’s anxiety.  Anxiety is my thorn in the flesh.)

Germane or not, the din and clash of the wine bottle tumbling to its near demise proved to be the straw that broke the camel’s back.  The tears were cathartic.  I needed the release.