At the age of twenty-seven, I first felt that I had to pretend to be mature. At the annual meeting, I drew a long-necked bottle labeled in French, and the boss smiled and said it was a 1982 Lafite. The whole room cheered for me to open the bottle, and as I nervously pulled out the cork, my heart raced faster than during my first blind date. Everyone was waiting for me, the "young person," to share my insights. I forced myself to bring my nose to the rim of the glass, pretended to take a deep breath, and then said in the most fake tone of my life, "Hmm, the top notes are blackberry and violet, with cedar and tobacco in the finish." In reality, all I smelled was a mix of hospital disinfectant and rotten grapes. When I took the first sip, my tongue was instantly kidnapped by the tannins, so astringent that I almost rolled my eyes on the spot, but I still forced a look of ecstasy and nodded, saying, "The balance is really good." At that moment, I deeply realized: the world of adults requires a complete set of lies.

In the following years, I turned lies into instinct. At friend gatherings, I always ordered red wine. When the wine list was passed around, I first looked at the prices; for the expensive ones, I would say, "This vintage is nice," and for the cheap ones, I would say, "Just a casual drink is fine." I even bought a professional cocktail shaker tutorial and learned the entire process of tilting at forty-five degrees, swirling clockwise, observing the legs, smelling three times before drinking. Friends praised my taste, and I secretly laughed: I can tell the difference between Sprite and Fanta, okay? Every time I came home after drinking red wine, I would chug ice water three times to rinse my mouth, then secretly dig out a sweating bottle of cola from the bottom of the fridge, hiding on the balcony to gulp it down like an affair. At the moment the cold bubbles rushed down my throat, I finally felt alive.

At thirty-five, I got a promotion, and my salary finally allowed me to buy those wines that easily cost four figures. One day, on a whim, I spent nearly twenty thousand yuan to buy a so-called "king of wines." On the day I opened the bottle, I invited over a dozen friends, dimmed the living room lights to the most ambiguous setting, played jazz in the background, wore a silk shirt, and held a goblet like a fraud performing at the peak of life. At the moment the corkscrew slowly twisted in, I even fantasized that I would ascend to heaven the next second. However, after the first sip, I almost spat out my soul. The taste was like someone soaked moldy leather in a vinegar jar and then sprinkled it with ash. I forced it down, maintaining a "Hmm, very restrained, very profound" expression, while inside I was already collapsing, cursing in my hometown dialect. Friends took turns giving long speeches about "minerality," "forest floor," and "wet pebbles," and I nodded like a garlic pounder, with only one voice in my head: I work hard for my money, why should I punish myself by drinking this stuff!

After the gathering that day, I stared blankly at the remaining half bottle of "king of wine." In the end, I did the most rebellious thing: I poured the entire two-thousand-yuan liquid down the drain. As the deep red liquid swirled away in the sink, I suddenly felt a strange pleasure, as if I had personally buried all the versions of myself that had tried to please others over the past decade. Then I ran barefoot to the fridge, took out a bottle of zero-degree cola, stood in the middle of the kitchen, and drank the whole bottle in one go. The bubbles exploded in my stomach, and I let out a thunderous burp, laughing until tears came out. At that moment, I realized that happiness was never expensive, and I never owed this world any "maturity" from the beginning.

On the last day of thirty-nine, I made a decision: to completely empty the two-meter-high wine cabinet at home. When the moving company arrived, they looked shocked and asked if I wanted to sell the wines worth at least hundreds of thousands. I smiled and said I was donating them to a welfare home, but in fact, I secretly replaced them with three hundred bottles of different flavored sparkling drinks. When I opened the fridge, the glass bottles clinked together like a small fireworks show. There were classic green bottles of zero-degree, Mexican-imported glass bottle cola, limited-edition white peach Fanta from Japan, and that kind of plastic bottle iced tea that was so cheap but sweet to the point of being ridiculous. Late at night, when I craved something, I would wear my oldest T-shirt, sit on the sofa hugging my knees, twist open a bottle, feeling the coldness make my teeth ache, the bubbles tickling my nostrils, and I felt like I was back at fourteen, hiding under the covers drinking soda in the summer.

On my fortieth birthday, I deliberately threw the most undignified party. The venue was chosen at a barbecue restaurant downstairs, with tables full of ice buckets containing chilled cola, Sprite, Beibingyang, Bingfeng, and Laoshan Baihua Shecao water, leaving even the waitstaff dumbfounded. When my friends arrived, they were stunned and asked if I wasn't supposed to drink vintage red wine. I held up a bottle of frosted zero-degree cola and said with a smile, "The true me, aged for forty years, is being opened today." Then, in front of everyone, I blew directly into the bottle. The bubbles choked me, causing tears to stream down my face, my makeup ruined, and the lipstick left a mark on the bottle like a strawberry. My best friend next to me suddenly raised a bottle of cola too and joined me in blowing. Soon, the third, fourth... in the end, over thirty people in the room each had a bottle of ice-cold cola, standing at the entrance of the barbecue restaurant collectively burping, the sound deafening. Passersby were startled, thinking we were performing some kind of cult ritual.

The most satisfying moment was last month when I attended a so-called top-tier wine gathering. The organizer invited international judges, and there was a bottle of Petrus worth thirty thousand on the table. The host insisted that everyone share their tasting experiences, and when it was my turn, I pulled out a bottle of ice-cold cola I had just bought from a convenience store, twisted it open, and the sound of the bubbles was particularly piercing in the quiet private room. I raised the bottle and said with a smile, "This one, sweetness off the charts, bubbles are arrogant, tannins are zero, and the aftertaste is a burp, best served at minus four degrees." The room fell silent for three seconds, then erupted into the most hearty laughter I had ever heard. Even the usually serious judge laughed and said he wanted to take a sip. At that moment, I suddenly understood: the true luxury of being forty is not finally being able to afford the most expensive wine, but finally having the courage to drink the cheapest yet happiest bottle of cola in the most expensive setting.

Now I have completely let go. When I stay at five-star hotels on business trips, the first thing I do is replace all those small bottles of red wine in the mini-bar with cola. The waitstaff always looks at me with a complicated expression, and I smile and slip them a hundred yuan tip, saying, "Buddy, help me freeze two more bottles." My social media has also completely succumbed; the most popular photo I posted was of my hotel bedside table at three in the morning, with six empty cola bottles and a bag of chips, captioned "The dignity of adulthood is crushed by zero-degree cola." The comments section is filled with peers confessing: turns out I'm not alone!

In this fortieth year, I finally permanently deleted the word "mature" from my drink menu. Growing up was never about learning to like bitter things, but finally having the courage to raise a bottle of ice-cold cola when everyone else is holding wine glasses and confidently say: I just like sweet things, I like the feeling of bubbles exploding, and I like burping thunderously after drinking. Cheers!

In this fortieth year, I finally unloaded the word "pretend" from my life. There is no longer any dusty red wine in the fridge, only rows of sparkling drinks, cold enough to make my teeth ache, sweet enough to get me high. When the waitstaff hands me the wine list at gatherings, I smile and wave my hand: "A bottle of ice-cold cola, please." At that moment, no one thinks I'm cheap; instead, it feels like seeing an old friend who finally dares to be themselves.

I started using the money saved from not buying wine to buy myself happiness: zero-degree cola at two in the morning, Beibingyang in front of the barbecue stall, and Bingfeng secretly poured into a thermos at the cinema. After drinking, I let out a thunderous burp and laughed like a child who just stole candy.

It turns out that maturity has never been about forcing oneself to love bitterness, but about daring to raise the most undignified drink in the most dignified occasions and confidently say: I just like sweet things, I like the bubbles exploding on my tongue, and I like being so audaciously myself for the first time after forty.

Cheers, this time, I toast only to the coldest, sweetest bottle of cola, and to the me who finally lives like myself.