750ml of Buffalo Trace

Buffalo Trace bourbon comes from the same distillery as Pappy Van Winkle. Yes, THAT stuff. You might spend two grand on a fifth of Pappy. Even the cheapest bottle you can find runs more than a hundred bucks... and you can't find it. You've got to know a guy. It's superbly crafted and aged ten years from a special limited production run. If you've ever tasted Pappy, you're an enthusiast with truly refined taste.

I'm not in that club. I'll sip Trace any day of the week. It's not cheap, but it's excellent, it's available, it's worth the price, and the bourbon you taste is better than the one you never will.

My name's Steve Jones. Not "Stephen" or "Steven." My birth certificate and every form of ID says "Steve." Why? Too many men in my family are named "Bob." I'm a fifth generation blue-collar Milwaukee guy; my family are "Regular Folks." We don't need to mess with fancy stuff.

Everybody rebels against their families when they're young.

My own defiance was coveting "the Best of the Best of the Best." My favorite car? Lamborghini Countach. Never mind that I'd never touch one. Favorite place to live? Beverly Hills. Never mind that I'd never left Wisconsin. Favorite meal? Kobe Wagyu steak, rare, with baked potato, roasted asparagus, and a fifteen-year old Dom Perignon. Never mind that I'd never tried any of that but the potato. You get the idea.

The only "Best of the Best of the Best" that I might possibly get was Stacy Auden. THAT girl. You know the one. She wasn't just a cheerleader, she was THE cheerleader. Homecoming queen, Prom queen, Queen bee of the popular clique, and queen of every boy's heart. She flaunted her midwestern Polish pedigree with pale blond hair, crystal blue eyes, exquisite bone structure, and milk-white complexion... and of course, she was one of the first girls in our class to develop. And man, did she ever. Her firm, bouncy hourglass figure was the stuff of every teenager's wet dreams.

I HAD to have her.

Naturally, the girl everyone covets will date a similarly impossible boy- the quarterback, the rich kid, or the dude built like a Greek God with a ten-inch cock and fifteen-inch tongue. I could never be any of those guys, but I had one thing that they didn't- Obsessive Determination.

I wasn't the quarterback, but I could kick his ass if I fought dirty. I wasn't rich, but I could feign good taste. And I didn't have the body, but I could have the skills, and make sure word got around. Best of all, I could be the one thing every teenage girl wants- a raging asshole. At fifteen, every boy learns that girls are magnetically drawn to insufferable jerks. So, I was determined to become the most conceited jerk in town.

I'm sorry to say that it worked.

It took ten years. She wasn't my prom date. I didn't take her virginity, nor did she take mine. High school was over, and her glory days were behind her, but my persistence finally paid off. She was MINE.

It was awful.

She wasn't nice. She was completely full of herself. Once established in our relationship, everything was all about her. She became a self-obsessed shrew with no interest in anything but what she wanted right that minute. If I gave her any pushback, she'd cut me off and threaten to kick me to the curb. She knew she could have any other man she wanted.

Yeah, she did that, too.

I eventually realized I'd been so focused on WHAT Stacy was that I never noticed WHO she was. The end of that relationship was honestly a relief. In the cold daylight, I didn't care for what I had become, either. Being her kind of jerk was too high a price.

We may rebel against our families, but sometimes, we grow up enough to know that contrariness is stupid. Maturity is embracing who you are and where you come from.

My wife's name is Laura. She's no Stacy, thank god. She's honest, and she's wise. She's a generous lover, willing to try anything and get good at it. She's lovely, not ostentatious, friendly, not overbearing, and forgiving without tolerating nonsense. Best of all, I didn't have to destroy myself to get her.

The "Best of the Best" is never worth the cost. Premium, though, is priceless. Kind of like Laura, and this thirty dollar bottle of Buffalo Trace.