Diary of a Temporary Bachelor – Ramblings (2017)

Diary of a Temporary Bachelor – Ramblings (2017)

 

"Home Alone"

As of Friday, I am once again a free agent—bachelor mode: activated.

My wife left for Arizona on Wednesday to visit her parents, and our eldest son, who’d been living with us while interning at a law firm, gave me a brief “farewell, old man” Friday morning before hopping off to Boston for the weekend.

Technically, he’d stopped eating dinner with me since Tuesday. From Wednesday on, he vanished around mealtimes and returned home at the sort of hour raccoons would consider polite. So here I am—five days in, dining solo.

On Wednesday, I returned home after my usual dry cleaner duties, set the table, and waited for my son. When he didn't show up on time, my stomach started making executive decisions. I double-checked his internship schedule—vaguely remembering something about post-work dinners and cocktail hours (because what’s an internship without a cocktail, right?).

Bingo. Wednesday night was, indeed, booked with a dinner meeting.

So, I dined alone.

On Thursday, he told me he was off gallivanting around Koreatown with his friends.

Solo dinner again.

But hey, I’ve gotten the hang of it. Thanks to my wife's pre-departure refrigerator-filling extravaganza, I didn't have to worry about starvation. She stuffed it with mysterious items packed with motherly concern and a bit of fear that I'd try to cook.

For me, eating is less of a lifestyle and more of a survival strategy. I eat because I must—not because I feel particularly inspired to. My approach to food could be summed up as “minimal processing, maximum ingestion.”

Take Thursday, for example. I dumped some store-bought mapo tofu into a frying pan with rice, stirred it all together like I was on a cooking show called “Desperate Bachelor Kitchen,” and then, without even pretending to plate it, ate straight out of the pan.

And it was… good.

Which is weird. A solitary meal isn’t supposed to taste this good—especially when it’s served like an emergency ration. But it did. Which makes me worry: am I becoming… an animal?

When I set the table for my son on Tuesday, I plated the kimchi, sliced up some seaweed, and made it all look Instagram-worthy (if only I used Instagram). But when I eat alone, I zero in on the food like a hawk. Ironically, it’s almost more delicious this way. Of course, I never admit that in front of my wife—I'm not that brave.

In any case, what matters is this: being alone at home for a few days hasn't made me feel particularly sad or lonely. That’s got to count for something.

This morning, I woke up at 5 a.m. because I had to go play soccer in New Jersey. My phone alarm went off, and I groggily thought, “What fresh hell is this sound?” My brain was blank. Still, I stumbled around packing clothes and gear like a man who’s been drafted into a war he didn’t enlist for.

The sky was overcast.

I hadn’t played soccer in two weeks—once because of Mother’s Day with the kids, and once because I was away in the Berkshires. As I did my warm-ups, I felt the jiggle. You know the one. The kind that says: “Congratulations, you now have more belly than ball control.”

Out of shape and out of breath, I struggled to keep up. Even though I know guys my age aren’t typically running around like they're auditioning for the World Cup, I couldn't help but feel a little deflated.

Funny how solo meals taste great, but group soccer makes me feel melancholic. Perhaps it’s time to start thinking about retirement—from soccer, not life (don’t get too excited).

On my way home, I got a call from a teammate: “Hey, if you’re still nearby, wanna grab lunch together?”

Alas, I was already home, so I told him, “Next time, my friend.”

Retirement from soccer? On hold for now.

Sure, I’m not exactly the Messi of middle age, and I often disappoint myself on the field, but I cherish the camaraderie. Giving that up would be a real loss.

Back home, I decided to check on the garden. And what do I see? A rabbit—bold as brass—snacking leisurely on my lettuce.

“Well, I guess you gotta eat too,” I said. “But you'd better be gone by the time I'm done showering.”

I gave the bunny a grace period and headed inside.

When I came back out, showered and slightly more civilized, the rabbit was still there—munching away, blissfully ignoring my earlier ultimatum.

“How did you even get in here?” I wondered.

So I tried chasing it, thinking it would flee the way it entered. Nope. It squeezed through a gap in the fence barely 2 inches wide.

I stood there, dumbfounded.

That’s when the future of our poor garden flashed before my eyes—a five-star buffet for every rabbit in the neighborhood. And don’t even get me started on the deer with their Olympic-level vertical leap.

As the old Chinese story goes:
“The king of Chu lost his bow. But he didn’t worry—surely someone else from Chu would find it.”
To which Confucius responded:
“Why restrict it to Chu? Wouldn’t it be nobler to say: ‘The king lost a bow, and a person found it’?”

So here we are—my wife and I plant the garden, and the rabbits and deer harvest it.
If you look at it the Daoist way, it's just nature doing its thing.

But alas—I am no Laozi.

And while I brood about philosophical fairness, the roses bloom outside our empty home—completely unbothered by it all.