Fermentation of the Evolving Girl.

Someone once told me that loving me is comparable to acquiring the taste for wine. As time goes on, the warm complexity of it is like honey on the lips of one, but remains a pungent shudder on the tongue of another. I guess some people don’t care enough to stick around waiting for the sweetness to kick in. He always did tell me he preferred whiskey.

That was a long time ago, but as I stand here fussing with my hair in the mirror, the metaphor hits me like it did the day he walked out our door for the last time. I still can’t bear the thought of moving out of this apartment, but my best friend Shea finally convinced me to go on my first date in four years. My first baby step back into reality. So here I am, wearing the only dress I’ve owned since I was 18, and absolutely dreading the rest of the evening.

“Red or white?” I whisper to myself, as my eyes flicker between my two pairs of decent shoes. I never understood why I didn’t go for neutral colors when I got these, because it might make me want to look acceptable more often. I glance once more in the mirror, grab the red heels, and slump into the chair by the front door. Left strap. Sigh. Right strap. Check the clock. 6:51 pm. Time to go.

I’ve walked down this road thousands of times, but now my stomach is tied in knots and I have to distract myself by noticing all the ordinary things around me. I never realised there was graffiti on the wall by the bakery, and I wonder how long Ms. Harris has had those hanging baskets on her apartment windows. There was a new bank being built by the corner shop, and then here it is: The Costelle Club. My throat has never felt so tight. I try to swallow my fear, and take the five steps leading to the door.

It’s unusually quiet for a Thursday night, making the man within the picture easy to spot. A crooked smile led up to wide blue eyes, and watching him bob his head along to Harvest Moon has stopped me in my tracks. He catches my glance, and adjusts his tie as he stands up awaiting our introduction. My legs have turned into stones, but somehow lead me to the comfort of his outstretched hand telling me it’s nice to finally meet me.

The warm lights in this room suddenly make the air feel heavy, and I can feel my heart pounding in my chest as we casually brief each other on the basics of our lives. How long have I been working as a receptionist? Too damn long. Yes, I’ve been here before, on many drunken Saturday nights spent drowning out the pain of losing my ex. I won’t tell him that. He tells me he’s a lawyer in a firm I’ve never heard of, and I think my false giggles are becoming noticeable. No, I don’t have any pets.

I wonder if Shea told him how badly I took the breakup, or if he knows he is the first man since then. I’m trying to allow myself to enjoy his company, but my thoughts have started racing again. I look up and notice a chalkboard with a promotion for a new brand of wine on it. There are images accompanying a step by step process of wine production. Step 1: Harvest. Step 2: Crush. Step 3: Fermentation. Step 4: Clarification. Step 5: Bottling.

There’s an awkward silence now, and it’s making me question why I’m even here. Now I can’t shake away that loaded phrase: loving me is like acquiring the taste for wine. Never have I ever met someone who compared a person to an alcoholic beverage, that one was new to me. I’ve replayed it over and over in my mind an absurd amount of times, wondering what it is about wine that makes it so polarizing among drinkers. Looking up at those faded images on the wall, I’m starting to see myself in them.

Growth before the harvest is a crucial step in preparing wine grapes, and also for preparing yourself for love that may come your way. All the little details that make you who you are accumulate, and help you determine who and what is suited to you. When I was 18, I felt that I had grown enough to fall in love. Robert came along at the ideal time and handpicked me as his selection. With Rob, all my pieces fit perfectly with his. It was as if the people we had become before we met each other had been designed and aligned just for the other person.

As three years flew by, Rob began to change into something else, and I quickly fell behind. What we each had to offer no longer formed the perfect cocktail, but tasted sour in his mouth. Inevitably, the crushing process started. Nothing had changed for me, which made this step hit harder than I ever anticipated. How dare he change his mind.

Rob broke the entirety of my being as if it was the best thing that could’ve happened to me. I’m only realising now that he may have been right. See, when grapes go through the crushing process, as messy as it may be, the fundamentals are extracted. They are forced to rid themselves of unnecessary clutter, so they become something new. That’s exactly what happened to me; I am the same, but different.

I see now that this process was unavoidable. Painful, yet somehow necessary. Allowing myself to be torn apart, skin shed, gave me the opportunity to reject all of the impurities that I was unhappy with. Cleansing myself of the traits that no longer suited me made room for the discovery of new qualities that highlighted the person I had found within myself. The ingredients that changed who I was into who I want to be.

This didn’t happen overnight for me, my personal fermentation took years to get through. It was an ongoing cycle that brought out a myriad of different emotions in me. Throughout this process, I tried new things, spent more time alone, and allowed myself to both break down and start laughing again. It was a lot of trial and error that looked a little something like this:

Ferment. Clarify. No, this isn’t right yet. Ferment. Clarify. They were right, pink isn’t a good hair colour on me. Ferment. Clarify. Okay, well atleast I tried yoga once. Ferment. Clarify. That’s the last time I try baking banana bread. Ferment. Clarify. Not quite what I was going for. Ferment. Clarify. Now we’re finally getting somewhere. Ferment. Clarify. Yeah, this feels right. Ferment. Clarify. That’s more like it.

That innocent 18 year old who thought she knew exactly who she was would look at me with confusion now. The truth is, I feel content with the person I’ve become. I am humble and loyal, and fiery exactly when I need to be. It turns out Rob got it exactly right; I am an acquired taste. If he couldn’t handle the punch, then thank god he stuck to scotch.

It took a lot of time to get to this place, but I can see so clearly now that this process is complete. I’m ready to be bottled up and handpicked once again; this time with a few modifications. Maybe I wasn’t prepared to be chosen in such a raw, fragile state then. I needed to learn, and live, and evolve into something much greater. Tom, the man sitting in front of me now, doesn’t know who I am yet.

He looks so tranquil skimming over the menu, with that same crooked smile still on his face. I don’t know much about him yet, other than his cat Fresco enjoys playing fetch, but I think I like this. In these 10 minutes that we’ve spent together, I can already sense a calm about him that I’ve been subconsciously searching for. I hope to God he finds something in me that he needs too, and his metaphorical palette can handle all the flavours I have to offer.

“Hi guys, my name is Julie and I’ll be your server this evening. Can I start you off with any drinks?”

“I’ll just take a water, please”, I say, not remembering if it’s appropriate to order alcohol on the first date.

“And for you, sir?”

Tom clicks his tongue while looking over the drink menu, still trying to decide. Why do I love the way he’s tapping his fingers on the table right now? He keeps looking up at me as if he’s making sure I’m still present, and I’m falling for that too. I’m not sure I can take another transformation through heartache. I love who I am now, and need to be with someone who loves who I am too.

The waitress chuckles to herself while Tom apologises for taking so long. He glances down once more, nods his head, and finally has his answer:

“I think I’ll take the merlot”

I laugh out loud, unable to handle the irony of this situation. Tom joins in, completely oblivious of the power his words held for me.

“Well alright then, Tom. I’ll have the merlot too.”