Dear off-dry riesling,
I love you. You know that. But I'm having mixed feelings about us. First, I need you to know it's me not you. We've been together for so long. Years. You were my first. Remember that dinner on the Cape? Without you, I would have never learned to try new things. Only you could make me fall in love hard enough to abandon my old life and take up oenology. Yeah, you and the unremitting drive to find out what makes you...you.
It's just that ever since we found one another, there's been this mounting judgment from others. I know. That's really shallow of me. No one actually said anything, but I know what they're thinking. You and I both knew it was coming:
either you're not sophisticated enough or [stereotype alert]: people like me always go for wines like you,
you lack prestige and no one wants to be seen with you during meals (and we both know how great you are with spicy),
you'll never mature,
you can't hold your own with steak,
and if given the choice - in a reception hall full of current and future wine gurus - it looks really bad if I don't spend enough time with the complex reds.
Listen, I'm trying to get ahead in this game. I just can't deal with all the side eye you've created for me. Maybe we can still connect from time to time. What are you doing Saturday? Did you hear about Black Pinky? It's my new favorite indo-chinese place. It's a super chic restaurant with colorful dragon masks hanging on the walls. You'll love it! They're packed by 8 so let's meet at 6 so we don't bump into anyone we know.
I hope you understand. I will never stop loving you. I just need some space until I earn enough professional credibility to make you look like an educated selection instead of a novice pick. Please don't hate me. I hope you understand.
See you Saturday?
P.S.: If it makes you feel better, I will never drink cheap Moscato.