I was 9 years old when I had my first sip of alcohol. I was 70 when I had my last.

Let me explain. A couple of months ago, I ordered a frozen margarita with dinner in a Mexican restaurant. It was gigantic — aren’t they always? — and so cold that my mouth ached as I drank it.

Still, I persevered, if for no other reason than my late father used to strongly imply that it’s a sin to order a cocktail and then leave it unfinished.

The next day, I had an appointment with my hematologist to discuss some recent bloodwork. The good news, he said, is that the hinky readings weren’t caused by some horrible disease like leukemia.

“We’ll figure out what’s going on,” he said. And then he asked, “Do you drink?”

“Not a whole lot, but usually a glass of wine at dinner and a cocktail on the weekends,” I replied, warily.

“No more,” he said. “No alcohol.”

“None?” I squeaked.

“None,” he said, smiling and putting the tips of his thumb and forefinger together. “Zero.”

After a pause, he said, “Will that be a problem?”

“No,” I replied. “But it sure will be bummer.”

And it is a bummer, sort of, but joining the ranks of the non-imbibers also has been instructive.

Some background: I grew up in Louisiana, where grownups sometimes would let the children have a teeny, tiny sip of red wine at Sunday dinner. Hence, my first taste at age 9. Later, when we moved to a German community in Texas, I had my first sip of beer at age 13.

Some people would say it’s scandalous to let kids taste alcohol. Others might counter that when kids are reared in families where the adults don’t hide the fact that they drink, then alcohol is not mysterious or exotic to the children, who then are less likely to go wild when they leave the nest, because alcohol isn’t a big deal.

Fast-forward 60 years or so, and I’m now drinking iced tea and Diet Coke and observing how people react when they realize you’re not drinking wine or sipping your usual Manhattan.

Some feel sorry for you because, in their minds, you’re missing out on all the fun. Others are obviously thinking, “Wow. I didn’t know she was a boozer, but when your doctor orders you to quit drinking, well …”

And a third group is pitiless. “Sucks to be you,” their expressions say as they happily pour themselves another glass of wine or mix another drink.

But really, why should people take pity on you because you choose not to drink? If your doctor has told you to lay off the booze, or you’ve realized alcohol is affecting things like your job or your marriage or your health, then you make your decision and live with it.

That’s been my first observation: that you don’t need to tiptoe around people who used to partake but now don’t. They have their reasons for not drinking, just as you have your reasons for drinking, and it’s not — or shouldn’t be — a big deal.

My second observation: Mama was right.

Having kicked a destructive relationship with alcohol when she was about 60, my late mother let me in on a secret known to everyone who’s ever given up drinking. People who’ve had several drinks, beers or glasses of wine aren’t nearly as witty or as interesting as they think they are — or as they seemed back when you were drinking alongside them.

Third: I think I’m going to miss alcohol during the holidays, when people are serving fruity vodka punches and eggnog made with rum. And what about champagne? Can ringing in the new year with a soft drink or coffee be as much fun as toasting it with the traditional glass of bubbly?

Fourth (and last, but far from least): I wasn’t expecting to notice any difference physically, but within a week of the doctor’s admonition, I was sleeping better and having a lot less nighttime heartburn than when I was drinking wine in the evening.

So now that I’m well-rested and my digestive system feels better, a question: If the doctor walks into the exam room in a few months and says, “Based on your latest lab results, apparently alcohol wasn’t causing any problem,” then what? Go back to the old days and old ways, or stick with this healthier habit?

At this point, all I know is that the doctor hasn’t yet asked me about my caffeine consumption, so I haven’t had to disclose to him that I drink three cups of Community dark roast coffee nearly every day.

And it’s a good thing we haven’t had that conversation. Because I can handle not drinking alcohol, but if the day were to come that the doctor said, “No more coffee,” then that would be the day I’d have to draw a line in the sand.

As the bumper sticker says, “They’ll take away my coffee when they pry it from my cold, dead fingers.”

Or something like that.

Frances Coleman is a former editorial page editor of the Mobile Press-Register. Email her at [email protected] and “like” her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/prfrances.