Wine. It’s a glorious drink, and one I’m more than partial to. Some might say I like my wine a little too much, but is there really such a thing? I think not. And anyone who says differently can take her bottle of Fireball to the corner and think about her life choices.
Like the many other types of booze we down every night, wine comes in different packaging. Bottles, jugs, itty bitty wine coolers,
my purse. The one type I can’t stand though, the one type that every girl should stay away from, is the one sorority girls love the most. Boxed wine. Even saying the words leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I just don’t get it. I tried boxed wine for the first and only time my sophomore year. Being a lowly underage sorority girl, my alcohol options were limited to whatever the legal-aged sister grabbed for me on her weekly trip to the liquor store. I was at her mercy and alcohol preference — not exactly where you want to be two hours before a mixer. I wanted to have a great night. I wanted to get royally plastered and only vaguely remember what happened the next day. Unfortunately, none of those things happened. What happened was a box of Sunset Blush Franzia.
The night started out fine. The three-liter bag seemed oh so convenient. It fit perfectly in my wine tote (everyone has one of those, right?) and refilling was simple. Actually, I’m pretty sure that after three drinks I ditched the cup altogether and drank straight from the spout. Things were going great. I wasn’t losing terribly at flip cup, I was taking stunning pictures with my pledge sisters, and I was genuinely loving my life. Until it hit me. I went from cloud nine to the lowest level of Dante’s Inferno in two seconds flat. What was this personal hell? Why did I feel like my head was going to pop off if I turned it the wrong way? And why the fuck was I on a merry-go-round? Of course, I wasn’t on any amusement rides. That was just my perfect night spinning out of focus. It was only with my best friend’s help that I made it outside to the curb, where I proceeded to take off my pointy heels and stuff them in my bag, where my ID, credit card, phone and yes, bag of wine, already were.
Plastic bags have the potential to rip. They are weak and untrustworthy, just like my grades. Needless to say, my wine tote became very literal very quickly.
I have since learned my lesson. Boxed wine is the devil. First off, it’s not even that good. If you like alcoholic juice that will have your stomach rolling from the excess sugar and give you a pounding headache three hours in, then by all means, drink away. Yes, I understand that you get three (or five if you’re feeling daring) liters for practically nothing but the lack of quality and loss of dignity you will inevitably experience after drinking it is not worth it. You deserve a wine that is going to treat you right. A wine that will love you all night long and not give you the hangover from hell in the morning. A wine you can be proud of.
Say it with me: I am better than boxed wine.
You are, I promise you. Don’t get lured in by the pretty colors and easy pouring spout. Pay that extra four dollars for the glass handle. You’ll thank yourself later. And if all else fails to convince you, remember this:
If you buy the bottle instead of the box, at the end of the night, when you’re crying into your cup on some random fraternity’s couch, wondering where all your sisters have gone, at least you can say that wine is good. Bottoms up..