wine stains
I knelt down on the carpet for the fifth time in two days to brush away my dog’s hair. It’s become a daily exercise, one I find more satisfying than the many workout Youtube channels I’ve tried to follow, but would stop on the second episode of the 30-day challenge — you see, I was never a competitive person. Every time I get down on all fours, lean back and forth pressing the brush hard against the carpet in complete Yoga mastery and notice it getting whiter at every transit, I know there’s no other exercise capable of resulting in such relief.
This time, though, I had had a bit more to eat and, still feeling the pasta in my stomach, decided to expand my horizons, reaching underneath the coffee table and letting go a few more calories. I felt like my own gym trainer begging me to continue, chanting “Just a little longer”. As I reached for one of the corners, where I could see a black furry pile that looked like my dog was hiding a child she was secretly feeding, I looked up to get more space and spotted (which I now call, after long contemplation) a magnificent work of art. A wine stain.
It was as big as an Avocado, as purple as a Teletubie after sunburn, as impressive as the Nazca Lines. It looked back at me, Monalisa-style, mysteriously making me attached. I was amazed not only by its splendid shape, but also by the movement -I imagined- it performed to stick, unnoticed, underneath my cheap beige fake-wooden IKEA table. I visualised its fast manoeuvre, making the curve around the corners during the brief moment between the spilling and the cleaning, without losing a single drop that would reach my almost-white carpet, highlighting the crime. Pure excellence.
As I sat there looking at the stain, I remembered the exact date and time the criminal must have gotten to its hiding place. For over a month now it was able to go undercover, pairing the record of a feminist male. But the stain, at least, developed into art. It was my birthday party, which for me is always the best day of the year -like Christmas, but celebrating the real birth date of a living communist.
So as any thirty-year-old (reaching Jesus’ death age) I wanted to share good wine with my beloved followers (thought: was Jesus the first influencer?). You know how drinks get in, tits (sorry, hips*) get out. My friend was performing with -judged by my dizzy-eyes- excellence a reenactment of a Youtube video dance of “Pump Up The Jam”. Slow moves, combining hips and hands in perfect sync while holding a full glass of red wine (the criminal). As she tried to lay the glass over the table to improve the act, it stumbled and fell, resulting in purple liquid reaching everything over -and, as I know now, under- the table without dropping to the carpet. Master.
Me, a (thanks to my mom) cleaning addict, finding beauty in a stain! It was like discovering an abstract cave painting in my own apartment, full of history. Splendid. Made me think about an old coffee table my grandmother used to have. Since I was born to the day she died, the table was fifty-years-old. Every time we were gathering around it, my uncle would pass by, kick one of the stumbling legs back to it’s place, like Indiana Jones getting rid of a scorpion on his foot (just a normal day), while Nonna took a deep breath and said “well, it’s a fifty-year-old table”.
I used to wonder why she wouldn’t replace the damn table. Now, what’s the beauty in saying “oh it’s my 3 months-old IKEA table”? How many stains was my grandmother looking at everyday, adding more and more history to its stumbling legs? How many birthdays could she have remembered through the abstract paintings that fifty-year-old was the canvas for? I could now tell my kids one day, “see, that’s the result of mommy’s thirtieth birthday party”.
So I stood up, grabbed a tissue and wiped it off. Afterall, it’s still a freaking wine stain in my living room.
