The self-entitled 20-something

So, Saturday mornings my husband and I have this tradition (of 6 weeks) of going to Merritt's Bakery on Cherry Street for some truly sinful breakfast pastries. This morning, after my weekly breakfast chocolate bar indulgence, I informed my husband that I wanted to continue hunting for an old standing coat rack at my very favorite store in Tulsa, Joz, an art deco collector's Albatross. The only way he was trudging through that store in  his PJs, I was informed, was if we went to his favorite bottle store afterwards. I immediately snatched up this bargain, seeing as how "his" bottle store just happens to sell my very favorite wines. After a quick and successful trip through Joz (I love my deco coat rack! A steal at $30.) we headed over to Utica Square's Grand Vin, and this, my friends, is where things. got. ugly.

There are many different kinds of 20-somethings - more than there are pastries in our favorite bakery. This morning my husband and I encountered the self-entitled 20-something, one of my most loathed. SE20s tend to live like they are 47 with a comfortable retirement, steady upper-management position in a solid financial firm, cars shimmering with "well-above-my-means," and are incredibly pretentious with, what I consider, the finer things in life. 

Oh, enter note. I am a wino. Yep. I love good red wine. A lot. Wine is an incredibly personal experience for me. For instance, I don't drink wine with people I don't love. I don't know why. I just don't. My closest girlfriends, my husband, and my mother are the only people on the planet with whom I share this indulgence of mine. I like to smell the wine, I like to swish it on the end of my tongue and wait for the impending dry earthiness. I like to close my eyes as it warms my throat, and I like to remember everything about where I am when I take that first sip; the air, the atmosphere, and the company. I love wine. 

Which is probably why I wanted to unleash an unholy rage on these poor, unsuspecting SE20s.

So there I was, eyeing a bottle of Next, my most recent Pinot Noir find, when these three label-sporting Kardashian look a-likes came barreling in my husband's favorite bottle store like a bull in a Tiffany's closet. They were siblings, two sisters and one brother, and I instantly knew I wouldn't like them. Probably because of this exchange:

Brother: "Just pick out whatever you want."

Sister 1: "I don't see any California. Do you think they even have California?"

Sister 2: "Oh, here it is. Napa Valley. $100 isn't bad if they are going to split it, right?"

Brother, Sister 1, and Sister 2 then proceeded to step directly in between me and my Next and oogle over a sealed bottle.

Rage. First of all, what 20-something shops for wine based on which state is on the label? Furthermore, what pretentious 20-something arse of a man declares, "Just pick out whatever you want." What he really meant was, "I know nothing about what I'm doing here, I have no personal interest in what we are purchasing, and I have no respect for the experience I am participating in." Ugh! And THEN, they pick out a "Napa Valley," no concern for the color or flavors, just the location. Some winery could've literally peed in a bottle and labeled it Napa Valley and these three young arist0brats would've snatched it up like Green Tea Snapple. 

So what did I do? Nothing. My experience was ruined. I waited in the car and watched the three mousse-kateers exit the bottle shop and climb into Brother's Jaguar, absolutely hating them for their disrespect of something so exceptional, knowing they would not sit in their living rooms curled up in a blanket sipping slowly and making cherished mental notes. They would drink their "Napa Valley" quickly and without consideration for the work and craftmanship that went into the bottle. The would swish it in oversized stemware and laugh loudly and pompously, as if in competition with each other, the center of their own universe. 

We gossiped about them the entire way home.