18 Years

I recently sat is a small smokey cigar bar, surrounded by dark wood fixtures and literate kitsch; I was sipping slowly and savoring my glass of 18 year old scotch.

Then, I began to ponder.

Taking into account the bottling, shipping and shelf-time, I slowly realized that I was drinking something that had been waiting around for me since I was in college. In fact, just about the time that I really first started to drink in earnest, two-fisting pitchers of cheap beer during breaks between classes, some leather-bibbed highlander working on the isle of Islay was rolling the cask containing my jigger down to the aging room.

Then, I came to realize that it is entirely possible that the same burly distillery worker may still work there. Perhaps right now, he, or his successor, is rolling another swollen cask down the dark hallways of Bunnahabhain, a cask containing the scotch that I will drink when my own children are old enough to do so. Well, the girl, at least...

There is scotch sitting right now, aging, in a cask thousands of miles away, that will eventually find its way to a glass placed before me. Until then, I, and the scotch, will have to wait.