Dear Pinot Noir:
I'm writing to tell you that I'm breaking up with you.
I still love you, and I'll probably always love you. But you've changed since we met, and I can't ignore it anymore.
It's not only because you've gained weight, although I won't deny that's a big factor. It's not just you who you hurt by hanging out in the vineyard way longer than you should, getting bloated with sugar and alcohol. You're also hurting me. If you respected me, you would work harder to keep your lean, sexy shape. But you don't respect me. You think I'll be there for you no matter how ripe you get. Well, I won't.
But that's not the only reason.
You're sleeping with Syrah. Don't try to deny it. I smell it on your breath and taste it in your kiss. You're lying down with Syrah, sharing your fluids, and then you come to my table and expect me to adore you anyway. Like I said, you don't respect me anymore.
Even if I could forgive you for sleeping around, you're not the same grape I fell in love with. I'll never forget the nights we shared, the laughter, the sensuous wet kisses. Sometimes you frustrated me with your mercurial nature, but I think that just made me love you more.
If I'm honest, I think travel ruined you. I know I'm a hypocrite because I love to travel and I was happy to have you with me. But I don't like what travel has done to you. I know it's selfish of me to expect you to always be the perky little grape with a French accent who loved food as much as I do. Oh, how I thrilled to discover how you brightened up with steak tartare, and the way you dug into lightly grilled salmon.
I admit I encouraged you to come to California and spend more time with me. And New Zealand. And Tasmania. And Hungary. And Italy.
Somewhere along the way, though, I think you lost touch with who you are. I think what went wrong is that you met Cabernet -- maybe in Yarra Valley, maybe in Carneros, and you wanted to be just like him. But that's not you, my dear. At least, it shouldn't be.
I'm not going to go all Mel Gibson here. As I said, I'll always love you. If you feel the same way, maybe we can work out a friends-with-benefits arrangement. But I'm afraid I have to ask you to move most of your things out of my cellar.
In case you're wondering, I'm not leaving you for somebody else. Sure, I'm seeing a lot of Riesling and Sauvignon Blanc these days. But it's not the kind of relationship you and I shared. It's summer, and we're in the same restaurants together. It's just a coincidence.
It's not about them; it's about you.
Take care of yourself. And please, try to get back into shape.
Sadly but with love always,