I have found myself time and time again, pretending to know way much more about the wine in my glass than I could ever know. To make things even worse, I’m certain in this futile attempt, I come off looking even more out of my depths than I really was.

Hours later, after every occurrence, I would hate myself for having been so insecure in my lack of wine knowledge and image that I would not take up the opportunity to learn from the person standing opposite me, who would instead be watching me drown in my nervous pool of sweat… I hate that Tom. Every time he arises, a bit of my soul is viciously torn piece by piece never to be whole again. I feel the urge to jump back in time, grow some chest hairs and slap that little boy around until his ego was set in place.