splitting a bottle of wine with myself.

every so often.

“You can drink a whole bottle of wine?” my sweet co-worker asked.

“You can’t?”

I had never really thought about it. A bottle of wine is just four glasses, right? This was in my early 30s, when I made it was more of a regular thing. When the corner wine shop on the way home to our Bozeman apartment had this $18 Cabernet Franc that I just LOVED. It was easy to drink and drinking too much was easy to do. Evan would note how much I was spending—“18 bucks for one night, just on wine?”

The nights where I split a bottle of wine with myself were never ragers. Likely, Evan was working, waiting tables in between going to nursing school. I would make myself a shrimp kale salad whilst listening to a podcast and then watch a movie that made me feel something. At some points, I would try to do some writing. I always thought it was poetic and beautiful until I woke up the next morning and read what I wrote—it was always horrible and deeply embarrassing. Still, I loved these nights where I split a bottle of wine with myself. I would do Tarot readings and toy with the idea of starting an Instagram account called “drunktarotreadings.” I would watch either the trashiest TV (Bachelor in Paradise use to be the best) or I would watch some hipster movie that I’d soon be obsessed with for a few months or I would listen to a record on vinyl all the way through and maybe do some collaging. Back when I used to do physical art, the messier the room ended up, the better the final product was. Somehow the two correlated. Letting go—getting messy—has always yielded the best results for me.

Drinking a whole bottle of wine wasn’t always something that was easy for me to do. I remember vividly the first time I split a bottle of wine with myself. I was in my mid-twenties, living by myself in Missoula, Montana—in the three months before Evan decided to follow me there from our home in Jackson. I had just found out that an ex-boyfriend who I had loved had gotten engaged. This was the first time that I had had an ex-boyfriend (who I loved) get engaged. I had had many exes get engaged (remember: I went to a Christian college… no ringy, no dingy!), but this felt like something different. I couldn’t tell if I was more heartbroken that I had found out through a mutual friend, which meant that I truly wasn’t friends with my ex anymore… or if I was jealous, because I didn’t know if I was yet going to marry Evan. Evan felt boring sometimes, where I felt madly (usually literally) in love with this ex-boyfriend.

I knew it was love, because he only wanted me when I left and I was so familiar with having to prove my worth that I chased that feeling and traveled often.

I knew it was love, because he had made fun of how I mispronounced “Bologna” while I was reading a poem aloud in bed and it crushed me and I knew we had to keep together forever so that I would live it down.

I knew it was love, because every time he wasn’t around, I told myself that he was bad for me and I had to stay away from him, but every time I saw him in person or his name popped up on my flip phone, my brain’s knee-jerk reaction was to say, “I love him.” I was addicted to him.

So I sat on the floor of the second bedroom in my new apartment and I split a bottle of red wine with my sorrows. The carpet was green, from the 80s, no doubt. It wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t scratchy either. It was worn. I sat down in my dark grey Urban Outfitters palazzo pants with one single wine glass and a bottle of red wine between my legs. It was probably Barefoot wine or whatever was on sale at Orange Street Food Farm. I had the luxury of being sad about an ex-boyfriend in a home I would soon share with my current boyfriend, but without my boyfriend there. I called my best friend and talked to her about it all. She understood. She always does. A lot of times, at age 26, you think that boring love can’t be forever love. Evan was so nice to me that I had nothing to work for. No love to earn. My ex had made me work for any and all love.

After I got off the phone with my best friend (a New Yorker who stuck to an early bedtime), there was still a lot of wine in the bottle and a still a lot of hours in the night. I poured more and listened to the mix CDs we had made each other. I poured myself another glass whilst watching Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind—my favorite movie that also suggests there’s mulligans for so much of life and love. This was the first time I split a bottle of wine with myself. I sat on that guest room floor almost all night. I would look to myself in a mirror that I hadn’t yet hung and ask, “Want another glass?”

The next morning, I was a wreck. (Missoula hadn’t yet expanded and then destroyed my liver.) The headache of a wine hangover pulsed and I felt so much shame for drinking that much and giving my ex so much of my energy. I was embarrassed. But looking back, I needed that grieving ceremony. It was love, so it needed a goodbye.

Now-a-days, I split a bottle of wine with myself once or twice a year.

Recently, Marcie went down to bed fairly easy (which feels like a miracle these days) and I had reflexively picked up a bottle of wine from the corner shop here in Jackson after a long day at work. (I know, I know, this reflexive booze-buying is a sure-fire sign of alcoholism.) Evan and I watched the new Murders in the Building whilst he drank a beer and I opened my bottle of wine. After the show was over, we talked for a bit and then he told me he was going to bed.

– You coming to bed?

– No, I think I’ll do some music stuff and paint my nails and watch some bad TV while I split this bottle of wine with myself.

– Ha, okay. I love you.

– I love you, too.

And we meant it. I know it’s actually love, because it’s boring. In the best way. It’s everything. It’s the most comforting feeling and I know now, this is love. He is my safe space. I don’t have to prove my worth to him. I kissed him hard, but not hard enough for him to expect the kiss to go any further.

I sat on the couch with my legs crossed and did a deep dive into some new music I had been meaning to check out. I DJed a show for KHOL last week and just wanted to make sure I knew what I was doing. I dusted off DJay Pro and played around with segues, as to make sure I did my old Segue of the Week days at KEXP proud. (iykyk.)

After I felt aptly prepared for my show, I watched Below Deck. I’m not particularly proud of that TV selection, but boy howdy did it entertain me. (as I get older, I feel like I expect less out of TV and I’m okay with that.) I painted my nails, I watched Below Deck, and I drank wine. I didn’t mean to drink the whole bottle—I didn’t know it was one of THOSE nights, but it just happened. And I think that’s okay. I had a blast with myself.

I know alcohol is not good for me. I know I need to stop drinking and I will. I’m running the New York Marathon TWO MONTHS FROM TODAY and I really feel like I should be sober until then. I go off the sauce when my depression gets too bad, because (as every. single. therapist of mine has told me) alcohol is a depressant. I’m not great at moderation.

Can I drink a whole bottle of wine myself? Absolutely. Should I? Absolutely not. Am I giving myself grace and love the same way I easily give myself another glass of Cabernet Franc? I’m trying. Love is easier to recognize when you’ve been shown it. I’m not calling Evan some kind of crazy enabler of heavy drinking (quite the opposite in reality), but I’m saying that splitting a bottle of wine with Evan multiple times in my life and understanding that his love is not conditional has let me be more okay with these nights.

I split a bottle of wine with myself before a few nights later where my baby threw up in her bed and then threw up in our bed and then threw up on the couch multiple times. I split that bottle of wine with myself a handful of nights before I found out my dad was hospitalized for two nights because of blood clots in his lungs. And I’m so glad I was able to be present and available for my family and loved ones, but I’m also so grateful I got to spend some time with myself, split a bottle of wine with myself, and catch up on everything that messy, beautiful woman has been up to.

This personal essay was directly inspired and by the essay “I’m in Love and it’s Boring” by Samantha Irby. (I love you, Sam Irby. thank you for everything.)

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Quick Hits:

• Jam of the Week: Nilufer Yanya – Made Out Of Memory.

  (is this song perfect? it’s absolutely perfect for me right now. the lyrics feels right for what I just wrote about. I love the coolness coming here in the mountains. it’s back to school season and this song feels right… although Marcelline sang “Jingle Bells” at the top of her lungs on the way to school this morning.)

• Oooooohhhhkay, These Boys Have My Number.
  (love that fashion. love that photography. love that article. I want to go to there.)

• New Fave IG Account?

  (not much more to say about that.)

• Friends Keep Talking About This Movie.
  (but like… not in a good way? in an intense way.)

• Most Of My Friends Have “Rachel, don’t buy those shoes” As An Auto-Text

  (but I didn’t listen to them this weekend. I’m excited about these for winter and they were on SUPER SALE.)

• I Am Always Ready For Some Reflection.
  (September Horoscopes hit.)

• MY Most Anticipated Album Of The Second-Half Of The Year Comes Out Friday.
  (loving this song.)

• Inspiration For Those Going Sober.

  (such joy!)

• I Want The Freedom Tracy Morgan Feels.

  (god, I love this.)

• This Made Me Laugh Too Hard.

  (it’s not even that funny! the caption is accurate.)

I love y’all. Thank you for being here. Thank you for letting me be messy and vulnerable and me. You are amazing.

xxo,
rachel.