Like A Fine Red Wine

I met Jack in college. I was a freshman and he was a graduate student about to get his masters degree. At eighteen, I was mature for my age - sometimes mistaken to be in my thirties. Jack, on the other hand, was twenty-four with a youthful, boyish likeness. We had become close friends and decided to try going on a date, a real date – not just eating together in the dorm cafeteria.

We had chosen a restaurant in a quaint historic inn. Jack put his arm around me as we stood in the reception area waiting to be seated. The warm smell of garlic bread filled the air and soft music played as the winter wind howled outside. Soon the hostess appeared and led us to a small table in the Green Room. Each room in the Inn had its own color theme and was named accordingly. A green paisley paper dressed the walls and velvety forest green drapes framed the full length windows. A cozy fire crackled in the fireplace. The room held half a dozen small tables and we were led to the one nearest the fire.

A sharp-looking waiter approached. He wore black slacks, a crisp white button-down shirt, and a towel resting over his forearm. The waiter gave Jack a sideways glance and quickly took his wine glass away. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he turned my glass right-side up, smiled at me and asked, “would you like to try the Merlot?” I was stunned. I had often been mistaken to be older than I was, but until now I had assumed it was due to my emotional and intellectual maturity, not my looks! I was staring at the waiter, mouth hanging slightly agape. Should I tell him he had just offered wine to someone three years shy of legal age? “Ahh… no thank you.” I said, trying to sound sophisticated. The waiter nodded and left us to study our menus.

At eighteen, I was still at an age where I wanted to be mistaken for being older, especially when dating someone six years my senior. So, I found the mistake elevating. But the waiter’s words played in my head. Merlot - what did I know of Merlot? I got lost in the din of crackling fire, clinking forks, and soft conversation around me. My mind began to wander, settling on a memory from a couple of years prior, when I had attended a class on etiquette with a small group of peers.

We had been seated at a long table spread with a variety of dishes and several pieces of silverware. Our instructor sat at the head of the table. To start the meal, a waiter brought him a bottle of Merlot. Wine tasting was the first thing we would learn. “Ask to see the cork,” the instructor said. “Inspect it for any signs of mold. The cork should also not be overly dry,” he stated. “Smell the cork, it should not smell moldy.”

We watched in earnest as the waiter carefully poured the deep purplish-red wine into our instructor’s glass. Next, he explained the finer points of color and clarity, and demonstrated the art of properly swirling the glass. Then on to smelling the wine. Merlot should smell fruity. He sniffed the glass and announced that this Merlot smelled like plums with a hint of vanilla.

Now that the glass of wine had passed all of the initial tests, it was time for the first sip, a small sip, not a full gulp. Our mouths watered as we watched him slowly take in the wine. He held it in his mouth for a long time, slowly moving it around. His eyes glistened and he vocalized his pleasure with a soft, “mmmm… hmmm.”

“Now it’s your turn,” he announced.

We glanced at each other. He did know that we were minors, right? Would he really let us have wine? Wouldn’t he get in trouble for this? The waiter reappeared with the same bottle of Merlot. He made his way around the table, pouring a glass for each of us. Smiles spread across the faces of my teenage peers and their eyes widened with gladness. When the last glass was poured, we were instructed to practice visually inspecting the wine and swirling the glass. We described what we observed eagerly. Next, we smelled the wine. It indeed smelled fruity, like grapes, though we failed to detect the hint of vanilla our instructor had described.

Finally, we were ready for the first sip. We slowly brought the glasses to our lips and drew in the purplish-red liquid. It tasted like… grape juice! Our instructor rolled with laughter as our faces fell in disappointment. Alas, I still did not know exactly what a fine Merlot tastes like, at least not first hand.

My mind returned to the Green Room when the waiter asked for our order. Jack was a bit annoyed that his glass had been taken away, but he did not want wine anyway. He was used to being mistaken for someone much younger. When he was a junior in college, an employee insisted he have his mother’s permission to try a granola bar sample at the grocery store!

Our first real date turned out to be a success and we were married a short time later. A few years passed and I sat at the table waiting for Jack to come home for dinner. Our toddler pushed cereal around on the highchair tray. My hand rested on a greeting card next to my plate. Tonight was the night that I would tell him. The door finally opened and Jack came in and settled at the table. I wanted to wait for him to eat first, but I was impatient. I pushed the card to him across the table. He looked confused as he opened it. Then he pulled out the positive pregnancy test and his confusion slowly turned to joy. Just as I was about to tell him everything, the doorbell rang. He opened the door to find two men with a vacuum cleaner. They looked at him and asked, “Are your parents home?” Poor Jack, still slightly confused from the news of expecting his second child, was even more confused by the salesmen’s question. “I don’t know. I could call and ask them,” he replied. Then he simply shut the door and left them standing there.

The years marched on and now, as I stand on the cusp of forty, I still look significantly older than Jack. I make him wear a mustache and goatee. This brings him up from high school to college intern as far as most people are concerned. At this rate, I fear that one day I will be mistaken for his grandmother! We are certainly heading in that direction. It is no longer elevating to be mistaken for being older than I am. The grocery store clerk now calls me “ma'am.”

The face in the mirror is slightly wrinkled, freckled, and the hair is streaked with gray. But I am determined to age with grace. Every wrinkle etched on my face is a reminder of a joy or a sorrow. Every freckle denotes a day spent in the sun, likely working in the garden. Every gray strand is a mark of wisdom, of a life lived. And as the years go by, I intend to grow softer and gentler with age, like a fine red wine.