My first time was when I was nine.
I knew it was wrong, but I was really curious.
The next time I did it, I was slightly older -- 15.
And this time, I did it blatantly under my mum's roof.
You're a big boy now, I'm told. It's okay.
And so I innocently took the crystal glass from this very naughty person and had my first cautious sip of whiskey (neat).
"How? Nice or not," asks my mum Mrs Lee,who ought to be on the watch list of family social services.
Truth be told, I didn't like the whiskey one bit, but I drank it anyway because Mrs Lee said I needed to learn how to handle alcohol as a man and I should learn to do so under her supervision.
And when I looked back to the first time when I sipped red wine at nine (it was after midnight mass so there was celebratory concession), I too remember not liking it.
Fast forward to now; not only am I not hating it, I'm giving alcohol a tad too much love.
When it's time to celebrate, drink. When I'm alone, drink. When I'm back from work and haven't even undone my tie, drink.
Whenever my partner J shakes his head at my wine glass, I smile and tell him it's good for the heart.
When my godson visits, and I'm having a drink with his dad, I tell the innocent li'l chap that "papa is having a medicinal drink so you can't try it."
It wasn't until late last year when I realised I am indeed having too much to drink (four bottles of wine a week when I'm feeling moderate and sometimes, seven a week).
How did I get here?
Well, to be fair, after my bitter whiskey encounter, the next time I drank was when I was a student in Australia, where wine is so cheap you can buy it with loose change.
It didn't help either that in my first year of uni, I had stayed in a Catholic dorm where wine drinking was not frowned upon.
Whenever we had our monthly formal dinners, we would have free flow of wine.
By year two when I moved out to stay with friends, we had by then each developed the trendy habit of having wine with food.
It started off with a harmless bottle of white wine shared among my young, thirsty friends, over fish and chips.
And whenever we had house parties, someone would buy wine.
And so as not to allow the wine to expire, I took one for the team and single-handedly took care of the wine.
From there, I took two, three and more bottles of wine.
In my third year, I was at my most stressed academic life. I was constantly worried about living the legacy of all Asian students who need to ace not just their subjects but also to basically top the cohort (Stanley my sex bunny friend would love to top the cohort, but today, he's not in my story).
My stress led to sleepless nights and for nearly a year, I couldn't easily drift to sleep.
And so, I turned to alcohol, guzzling down one glass every night just to get that comfortable high that would lull me to sleep.
By the time I graduated and started work life, I had developed a very strong threshold for alcohol.
I could easily down glasses of beer, shots, cocktails, wine at social functions and still walk in a straight line.
When I bought my own place, my sister gave me a wine cooler and frequently bought me expensive wine, unwittingly inheriting Mrs Lee's role of passing down the alcohol-feeding tradition.
It soon became a lifestyle: Having friends and family over with food and wine.
And then it became a habit.
I would come home after a super long day and the moment I'm home alone, I'd roll up my sleeves, loosen my tie and pour myself a glass of wine.
The satisfying pop of the cork, the soft swish of wine gushing out of the bottle, and therapeutic swirl of the glass, and suddenly everything feels right.
Except it's not.
Friends would joke that I'm alcoholic. Heck, sometimes, even I refer to myself as alcoholic.
But they meant nothing. They were conversation starters. Meaningless chatter. Not actual labels.
My partner J doesn't like it when I drink but would always allow me a glass or two when we go out for a nice meal.
He would at most sniff me after dinner, scrunch up his nose and say "you smell like vomit". But he never once told me to quit or stop drinking.
Perhaps, I shouldn't wait for that day to come.
I mean, I am highly functional -- with or without alcohol.
I can pour myself a stiff drink, open my office laptop and do my work without making any error.
And I don't shiver in cold turkey when I'm without alcohol
There also isn't a beer belly to remind me that I was turning my body into a barrel.
But of late, I am slowly beginning to realise that I am perhaps drinking a tad too much.
I used to tell myself it's okay to drink alone because I am enjoying the taste of the wine.
Recently, I started becoming homesick, and the wine -- no matter how much I liked it before -- didn't taste the same anymore.
There was no longer joy or beauty with every sip.
Instead, I felt empty inside, as if I needed to fill the void by feeling the wine burn my insides as it made its downward spiral inside me.
It was a bitter realisation to swallow.
On Dec 29, 2020, I made a vow to cut down -- not cut out -- alcohol as my new year resolution.
Two bottles a week, down from four for a start.
I need to ease myself slowly so that this becomes sustainable.
I won't cut off ties totally with wine. I'll cut myself some slack and go with the flow on merry occasions.
But I won't be tangled in my alcoholic mess like before.
It's been nearly two weeks since I last touched wine, just to prove to myself that I am capable of staying away from it if I want to.
And the next time I do drink, it'd be because it's a special occasion -- and because I want to.
Not that I need to.
Yeah, that sounds like a good strategy.
I will drink to that.
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