I’m writing this letter late at night after many drinks and a long think about our future together. What I have to say is going to hurt your feelings. But, I’m certain it won’t harm you permanently.
I love you, yet I despise what you’ve become, and therein lies the rub.
For quite some time, I’ve been trying to convince myself things will change. But they haven’t. Frankly, my dear, you’ve changed, and not for the better. Now I feel I have no choice but to pull the plug on our relationship.
When we met you had such an understated personality and an almost dry sense of humor. You were interesting to hang out with. Remember the times we spent together lounging on the beach in the late afternoon, reading the New Yorker and then sharing a simple supper of steamed mussels and French bread on the screened porch? You were authentic. You were sublime. You sneered at the socialites and laughed at the snobs.
When the Great Recession hit, the trendy wine-drinking crowd started noticing your very reasonable price point. You got invited to a couple of swank parties in the Hamptons where you caught the eye of the New York Post and the imaginations of a few social media style influencers looking for a reason to exist. Flash, bam, alacazam, you were suddenly summer’s “it girl,” perched like an angel atop the social pyramid.
You’ve become so popular I’ve even heard you referred to as a “lifestyle.” Today your devotees can purchase rosé-flavored chocolates, gummy bears, candles, and even clothing all touting your virtues. Practically every winery now feels obligated to produce a rosé. And why not? They’re easy and cheap to produce and, frankly, does anyone really care what they taste like so long as they are pretty and pink and look good on Instagram?
And don’t get me started on the new group of girls you hang out with: Skinny Girl, White Girl, Happy Bitch, and Notorious Pink. Real classy.…
Your guy pals aren’t much better. If I hear one more of your gays scream out “rosé all day” while twirling and swirling his glass of pink, I might just puke. It’s trendy now for straight guys to drink pink too, but only if it comes in a manly bottle with a screwcap and has a butch name like 40 Ounce Rosé. “Brosé” is what they’re calling it now. Gimme a fist bump.
My dear Rosé, you may think you’re still A-list, but you’re not. What you are is overexposed. You’ve jumped the shark and you’re on the slippery slope towards common. I understand some bars now don’t even bother with a wine glass. They serve you up in a plastic cup.
You’ve been spotted in boxes and cans. You frequent Walmart. I hear you’ve gone from hanging out in multi-million dollar homes in East Hampton to something called the Rosé Mansion in Manhattan where for $48 enthusiasts can taste over 120 wines, pose for photos, and swing from a chandelier all the while screaming out how much they love you.
Could it get any better? Most definitely. Paris Hilton has created a perfume inspired by you.
My dear, you are selling yourself cheap and if you don’t watch it you will become just like your Auntie White Zin. Remember her? She drove a white Pontiac Trans Am and married the same man twice. Now she’s bitter and broke and living in Reno.
I know you don’t want to hear this and you definitely won’t agree with me because you’re surrounded by sycophants who all whisper into your ear how “rosé is here to stay.” Be careful what you believe. It’s true you are the fastest growing sector of the wine industry and everyone points to vodka’s staying power as a harbinger of your future. But here’s the thing about vodka. Vodka is a serious player. Vodka creates alcoholics. You, my dear, inspire shopaholics.
Alas, the morning light of the new day will soon be upon us, my dear Rosé, so I must bring this letter to an end. While I very much hope you will take this as the wake up call it is meant to be and that you will understand why I must break up with you, I’m not holding my breath.
In conclusion, I want to reiterate for the record that it’s not me, it’s you. I hope we can still be friends.