Magical Wine Particles

I've recently (as in approximately three days ago) decided that French wine has enchanted properties that simply do not exist in other areas of the universe. I first noticed this phenomenon when I was in France two years ago. All of my friends at the time were very fully aware of the effects that wine would have on me while trotting around Paris (not that NYC Angela and friends didn't experience the same paradox). No matter how little wine I thought I was consuming, the chances were that it was always vastly more than interpreted. More often than not, this meant that I would quickly succumb to exhaustion from which there was very little hope of return. Either that, or I party hard till the break of dawn and the aftermath is perilous. The worst part, however, is that I am very rarely the one ordering, which is why it becomes so difficult to wrap my brain around just how much French elixir I have imbibed. The effects, of course, are varied, unpredictable, and typically contradictory. It's a very seductive minx which often reels me into its coiled layers of subterfuge. And I freely admit that these mystical attributes rarely happen when I'm on my own, or even gabbing with my girlfriends. Naaaaaay... 

I think the combination of wine plus boy generally creates a chemical reaction that results in me melting into a puddle of grapevine-induced delirium the next morning. Dionysus himself usually hovers over me in a cloud of glee whilst my head teeters precariously on the nape of my body, hourly threatening to detach from my frame. And of course, none of this is immediately anticipated in the moment. It's more of a Cinderella effect... The evening turns into a whirlwind of glitter heels and princess wings. Wine is the Fairy Godmother casting her spells on the Parisian night air and all is a dreamland of red and white and rosé stardust. Prince Charming inevitably appears in some form or other, providing the necessary scientific elements of manly magnetism and savoir-faire. It's not until the morning that I am left in a pile of rags and soot, possibly pecked at by chatty mice trying to revive me from the ashes. I accept this fate, as I am in the land of romance and vineyards. I know that all fairy tales must involve trial and tribulation before appropriately resolved. But in the meantime, I shall try to abstain from weaving my witchcraft-like wine-ing too too often.