All that glitters isn’t gold

An obsession is an idea or feeling that completely occupies the mind.

Although a dog person, and canine in most of my ways, I have always had a rather feline disposition towards shiny or sparkly objects. They could be chains, earrings, mirrors, firecrackers or the more obscure- golden or silver curtains, objects reflecting light, plates, glasses, and cutlery or my childhood obsession, dad’s glasses of whiskey.

Children usually find themselves attracted to objects because they’re pretty or make funny noises. I don’t really know what actually got me running behind those glasses. I do suppose, however, that it was the color of the golden liquid, rich in its smell and taste, with oil-like swirls swimming at the top, sometimes with little ice-cubes bobbing up and down in them. How many children can one find, that actually like the bitter liquid? How many children. Like the burning sensation, it brings to their throats? We were often told to stay away from alcohol. Because it was “medicine”, and because it tasted bad.  Did I really drink some of it?
Did I really drink some of it?

My mother suspects, that I set on my path of becoming an “alcoholic” at the tender age of two.  I was first told about my queer taste when I was going through an old album contacting pictures from my childhood. One particular picture, taken at our old, rented house in Austin-town, showed my father sitting on the floor, next to the washing machine, a tool box behind him and nuts, bolts, and spanners strewed all around, with a glass of whiskey in hand, with a rather stern expression on his face, waving a finger at me. I was about a foot away from him, bawling my eyes out. I found it rather curious, that my family chose to take a picture of me getting yelled at and weeping, over comforting me.

I ran to my mother with the picture, curious about what was happening in it. I was used to pictures with dad and his glass of whiskey, and I didn’t really know what he was up to. I suspected that I might have stopped him from fixing the machine, or I might have tried eating a nut or maybe I simply refused to stop pestering him.  I showed my mother the picture, where I sat in a little pink dress bawling my eyes out, and my father, in his lungi and T-shirt, was giving me a good talking-to. One look a the picture, and she burst into laughter. After what seemed to me simply too long a time to laugh at a picture, she told me about my queer little taste.

Evers since I learned to walk and climb efficiently, I’d put my best efforts to get the glasses that my daddy would drink from, often managing to take a sip or two out before I’d get caught. I would climb on to the sofas, or the coffee tables, I’d try to get at the dining table and essentially always find a way to sniff out the glass- no matter where dad hid it. My mother then went on to tell me about this one time my dad had a glass behind his feet and under the sofa. I somehow managed to steal away from my hawk-eyed mother, and crawled under the sofa, slowly getting to the glass with the glorious golden exilir. My family spent about twenty minutes searching for me, finding me under the sofa, with my mouth over the glass, without a trace of guilt in my twinkling, mischievous eyes.

Ever since my mother revealed my shenanigans, the “Liquor thief” story frequents at our family gatherings and dinner with our family friends. It’s the first thing she brings up when I’m offered any, and the last story she will ever forget.

Now, I know why daddy always locks his liquor cabinet, and he’s always so careful with his whiskey. At least I taught him to lock things up and make sure no one gets at them. Right?

 I don’t know how my mother broke this habit, and I don’t even know if she actually tried breaking my habit. I don’t even know if it affects the way I drink now. I’m not really a whiskey person, and I don’t know if this old, broken obsession of mine has something to do with it. And that is the story of the obsession that completely occupied my mind.

Image: Huffington Post

 

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