I parted my hair. Two hanks of clean locks on either side, secured in the back with an elastic. I put on a dress. Unearthed from the wrinkled recesses of my dressing cupboard, frumpy yet feminine. I tweezed. Unseemly sprouts from the neck up, vanquished in an earnestly pitiful, pitifully earnest attempt to give one the illusion that I don’t–couldn’t possible!–live in a vehicle of any variety.

On the drive over, I repeated my mantra to fan the embers of enthusiasm. “Elegance is an attitude,” I chanted to Eric, meanwhile hoping that I was correct in assuming flip flops were more formal to sneakers. We were headed to a vineyard of some renown for the afternoon. The one whose grapey products command the TOP shelf at the supermarket, where the $40 bottles go.

Upon arrival we noticed that in a similar vein, the parking lot is built for the top shelf automobiles one might expect to decorate such a  place. Small and shiny with clean backseats. Paula was forced to the periphery, sidled up sloppily next to the vines. If this was an airplane, she’d have been forced to purchase an extra seat.

At this point, I nearly lost my nerve. And this was before I knew my face was smeared orange. (Evidence of an overlarge carrot I tried to conquer for lunch.) After a frantic side view mirror appraisal, a Dawn dish soap goatee, and the distressed scrub for an appearance in peril… I gave up. I put a scarf over my dress to hide the subsequent water spills. And I followed Eric meekly through the grand double doors to whatever judgement was to follow among the polo shirt society set.

And,

Well…

The good news: the staff was lovely. The grounds were spacious. And the wine was potent enough to fill the front yard with my cackles, as I swung barefoot under a tree with a glass of pinot in hand. Elegance is an attitude, sure. But so is not giving a fuck. Cheers!

-K