image My wines, my memories. Now, where did I put that corkscrew again?

 

I believe in celebrating every single little thing. And by celebrating, I mean writing a blog post about it and then, going to my room to take a nap. I’m just kidding.

By every single little thing though, I mean my recent achievement of racking up over 19,000 followers on Instagram. It’s been quite a journey; one not without a few niggling annoyances. Annoyances like being wine-shamed, not having a slew of first growths in my feed, lectured about drinking certain wines too early (too late), and more. Niggling annoyances aside, I’ve come to rely on Instagram to keep a record for every wine I’ve ever drunk. I have restless nights dreaming about it crashing down on me one day, and obliterating every single one of my entries, every single one of my memories, every single one of my questionable tasting notes.Everything just blanked out. I wake up in a cold sweat every time.

The best way to counter fear is to take action. So action, I take, to safeguard my wine history and memories. I create Excel sheets to record all the wines I have drunk and all the bottles I have in my makeshift cellar. I keep a wine journal. I store a copy of all my pictures in Google Drive. I rejoice in an article I read that tells me that one glass of wine a day aids memory – unfortunately, it works only if you’re over 60. And that’s when I realize I’ve gone too far. Or am too far gone. Or both.

I tame my neuroses by restoring my faith in Instagram and I will celebrate once again, when I reach 20,000 followers. I will also have a bit more faith in my ramshackle memory despite the many times it has bailed on me. I will work on building my mnemonic powers by attaching ridiculous, exaggerated images to words. So far, I have Château Pichon Longueville Comtesse de Lalande pictured as an ogre of a woman with three arms, a bulbous nose and melons growing out of her head. I don’t know where that’s getting me, but the name just rolls off my tongue like honey now.

And I will keep having faith in my partner’s eidetic memory. He who can tell me, without hesitation, what I drank, on what date, at what time, at what temperature, how it smelled, how it tasted, whether I liked it, whether he liked it, what we paired it with, what I said, what he said, and what the server said. He is my Instagram in human form. Which is why I now have nightmares of his memory crashing down on me too, but I figure: one crisis at a time, my gob, one crisis at a time.

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