Getting Away from My Wife

In the hierarchy of men, there are Alpha and Beta, and there’s me, the next letter of the Greek alphabet–a Gamma male. Too shy to lead, but too proud to follow. Dodging conflict but quietly convinced I’m right. Rigorously avoiding sports but wanting to get a good kick in every once in a while. To sum it all up, I love the thrill of defiance.

“Don’t forget to start the dishwasher, take out the trash, rinse your toothbrush, and use mouthwash. Your breath stinks,” my wife says. She’s very helpful at giving me advice.

“Yes, babe,” I say. “Have a nice class.”

She grabs her yoga bag and is out the door. And I’m free for the next few hours. Freedom! Free to do what I want, are the song lyrics in my head.

Yet, I have no idea what to do.

Marc Maron on the WTF podcast said he yearns to be in charge, that his genius be recognized, to be made a leader, but if that ever happens, he will immediately deflate and turn around and ask, “so…what do you guys want to do?”

I relate.

Now that I've achieved nirvanic freedom for an afternoon. What to do?

In my 20s, free time meant happy hours, nightclubs, champagne and wild flirtations with members of the opposite sex.

In my 50s, life is a bit different. I don't have energy for nightclubs, and my blood sugar runs a tad high. My wife, ever vigilant, keeps my sweet tooth in check. But every now and then, a man needs to break free, to live with reckless abandon. I seize the moment - I head to Ikea.

After a short tram ride (I live in Hong Kong, a topic for another article), I arrive in the city’s main shopping area.

With a bounce in my step, I see the glowing blue-and-yellow world of Ikea ahead. Living in Asia, although I’m not Swedish, Ikea feels like a slice of home. Last month, at its cafe I indulged myself with a pistachio ice cream, and the sweet memory fuels my mission.

As I glide down Ikea's entrance escalator, I detect a faint, foul aroma in its basement floor shopping area. It seems something's gone wrong with the sewage line. But no matter. Carpe diem! I’m here to live boldly.

I spot a touch panel ordering machine and dart to the glowing screen before anyone else gets to it. And, there it is: a soft serve ice cream cone for only 6 HKD dollars ($0.75 USD). A steal! I tap the button, pay, and grab the paper slip the machine spits out.

Triumphantly, I saunter over to the ice cream counter, where a bored looking attendant stands. I catch her attention, and smiling, gleefully hand her my order number. It feels a bit silly to be ordering an ice cream cone like a child at my age, but who’s watching?

She gives me a curious glance—perhaps a 50-year-old grinning over an ice cream cone looks odd. Her looks question my decision, but I nod affirmatively. “Thank you,” I declare preemptively with conviction. Why can't a man get an ice cream?

She turns to the ice cream machine, pours the soft serve into the tiny cone, and hands it to me with what I think is a tiny smirk. I say thank you (as if I’ve received a drink at happy hour) and move to the indoor dining area - it's full of young couples furnishing their first apartment, parents buying furniture for their young children, and old people with nothing to do.

But the toilet-like smell lingers, and I head outside with my ice cream to enjoy it in the fresh air. Hong Kong is humid, and places indoor or especially at basement level, can get musty.

Out in the open, a refreshing warm breeze greets me. Perfect ice cream eating weather. In the daylight, I notice the ice cream’s color: a caramel yellow, not the pistachio green I expected from the month before. A mix-up, vanilla or caramel, perhaps? No matter. I’m here for adventure.

With ecstatic joy, I take the first lick. There’s a sweetness, a syrupy flavor of condensed pineapple, combined with a sour tang of fruit.

And then the taste of raw garlic, rotten onion and fermented sewage hits me.

Durian.

The infamous smelly tropical fruit. But it’s ice cream and I’ve already started. If I hold my nose, I mainly taste its chilled sweetness. AND, this is my chance to live large. I scarf the ice cream cone down, trying not to look back at the pedestrians staring at the older American man eating a tiny ice cream cone with such reverence.

After I finish, I look back at Ikea, there are signs everywhere, announcing that June is Durian Month. Somehow in my joy to buy an ice cream, I didn’t see the signs on the way in.

A while later, the first burp comes up. For the next few hours, I’m haunted by the wretched aftertaste of Durian.

That night, as my wife and I munch on popcorn on the sofa watching the latest episode of some bingeable series on Netflix, she glances over.

“Did you use mouthwash today?” she asks, “Your breath smells like Durian.”

Author's Note — I haven't written anything about my day-to-day life recently, and wanted to see if I could write a short piece with a touch of humor. My wife is incredibly kind, and I don't think I could be away from her for longer than it takes to eat an ice cream cone. For this story, I was inspired by Jenny Lawson's short story about losing her shoes, in her book Broken. An incredibly funny story about something so ordinary, it made me think.