All rights reservist

I think I'm in love.

No, that's not exactly a good way of putting it.

I'm having an affair, and I think I'm starting to fall in love with the third party.

Ah, that's more like it.

Not too long ago, I was called up for reservist.  And life has changed slightly.

Let's back up a bit.

I ORD-ed some 10 years ago, and when I returned to Singapore after my studies, I had enthusiastically written to the relevant departments, requesting to kick-start my reservist cycle.

Nobody replied me.

So I sent another email about a year later. And another. And another.

Finally, I got some reply that were along the lines of, Oh, yeah, we're on it. Don't worry. You'll be recalled soon. 

That was in 2005.

I'd since given up on hoping to be recalled - until I got my first recall order early this year.

With my NS peers advancing into their fourth or fifth cycle of reservist, I felt left out.

For a while, I felt as if I were an ignored audience member in an interactive magic show.

You know, there'd always be that one idiot who'd wave his hand eagerly in the hope of going on stage to be locked in a cabinet, and have swords inserted into various parts of his body, but whom the magician would ignore because he came across as weird?  I mean, which magician would risk having some overly-eager creepy dude volunteer on his stage right?

Yeah, that creepy dude would be me.

I get all sorts of suggestions from friends, for my not being recalled -- the top of which: This fella is so eager to start reservist. Something must be wrong. Better not recall him. 

Very often, friends rebuke me for my being overzealous. 

Why on earth do you want to volunteer to start reservist? You mad issit? If they don't call you, good lah! I want to escape also cannot. You hate your day job that much issit?

To set the record straight, no, I do not hate my job such that I want to find an escape.

But after my recent reservist, really, I can't say with 100 per cent conviction.

You see, while I was in the K-9 Unit in NS, I performed very different policing duties.

But during my first-ever reservist cycle, I was posted to a police centre where I had, for the very first time in my life, performed active policing roles.

While I'm mindful to not break any Official Secrets Act vow which I took, it's safe to say that my three-week stint with the force was life-changing.

Not only did it make me feel that the work of a police officer is meaningful, it also made me re-think my life.

Can I see myself as a police officer, pro-actively preventing crime, reaching out to help the community, and chasing thieves around the island?

I think I can.

Which is why I feel as if I'm cheating on my marriage to journalism.

All my life, my adult life.... I had planned and worked my way to fulfil my ambition to be a journalist.

I'm no Pulitzer-winning journo yet, but I'm very grateful I had landed my dream job in my current company. And between chasing deadlines and interviews and chasing thieves, erm, I think the former is more doable for me.

So, why the hell am I flirting with the idea of trading in my pen, note pad and microphone, for a point-three-eight, a set of handcuffs and the T-baton?

It is distracting and I find it worrying that a third-party has now come into the marriage.

And so, the journalist in me must contextualise the situation.

Over the last few weeks, I've concluded that, my reservist cycle is some holiday fling.

Hey honey, I gotta go on this trip. It's very important. I'll be back. Don't miss me. I love you.

And off I went for the holiday.

I had a great time there, I became fast friends with those I worked with, and I most certainly began to love the novelty of all the experiences that came rushing to me.

And soon, I begin to form hopes of developing this fling into a legitimate relationship.

But how to, when I've got my journalism marriage waiting for me back home?

This holiday doesn't last. It has to come to an end. And when it does, there is packing to be done, goodbyes to be said.

Back home, there are deadlines to be chased, words to be knocked out, interviews to be done. So much is waiting for me. How can I abandon those for you, my fling?

And because the practical side of me knows that a fling is a fling, it makes the yearning for a real relationship with the fling to develop, all the more morbidly romantic.

Perhaps, I'm one of those you-never-know-until-you've-tried types?

Then again, I've never been unsure of what I want in life. So how can this be?

In the end, I let the head take over the heart.

Once upon a time, the heart fell in love with journalism.

A relationship was soon formed. And with the passing of the honeymoon period came the harsh realities faced in that marriage: Long hours, stressful times of rushing a story minutes before the bulletin airs, low pay....

Soon, the heart forgot how that spark -- that raw sense of drive -- felt like, because, as with all relationships, the spark can dwindle.

So that's when the head has to take over: When I fell in love with journalism, I fell in love with the good and bad of it.

Just because the spark has dwindled 10 years on, just because there was a convenient distraction that came in my life (which I happened to take quite well to), there is no reason to cheat on the marriage.

And so, with those thoughts sorted out days before I returned to the marriage, I felt like I had renewed my vows to journalism.

And like a sweet spouse, journalism welcomed me back with open arms, the day I stepped back into the newsroom.