One of my favorite marketing books is “Start with Why” by Simon Sinek. I’ve handed out so many copies to my team that I’ve lost count. Lately, though, I’ve been turning the question on myself. What’s my why? Why am I here? Why do I exist? And why am I awake at 5:30 on a Sunday thinking about this shit?
I’m laying in bed in a hotel in Taoyuan. Last night was a 謝師宴 (xièshī yàn)—a “teacher appreciation banquet.” I don’t think there’s a Western equivalent, but in many Asian countries, students and sometimes parents take their teachers out for a big meal to show their gratitude. Except the parents of Justin’s class took it to another level. We booked out hotel rooms and banquet halls and turned it into a full-blown corporate year-end party—endless booze and talent shows included.
The older I get, the more introverted I’ve become. The music blasting during the performances gave me a headache, the professional magician’s shrieking voice grated on me, and watching a pack of second graders tear around the room while the wait staff carried out bowls of hot soup gave me no end of anxiety. I’d rather have been locked in a windowless room watching paint dry than sit through that thing.
After the banquet, Justin invited a few of his friends back to our room to keep playing. I didn’t know how to feel about it. We’re an introverted family—we hardly ever set up playdates with his school friends. Weekends are just his jiu-jitsu, piano, and ice skating lessons. My first thought was that the kids should ask their parents for permission. Then I thought about how I’d feel letting Justin go to someone else’s hotel room. I’d be nervous.
It turned out none of the other parents cared. Actually, they all seemed eager to get rid of their boys for a few hours.
And that was it. We let the boys play on the iPad for a bit while their parents kept drinking. We got to know Justin’s friends, and learned a little about life and responsibilities along the way. One of his friends—I’ll call him Steve to protect his privacy—is a sweet kid. He sat at our table during the banquet with his sister and his dad (we’ll call him Bob). Bob was super nice, and brought a bottle of whisky for the table. He offered, I gladly accepted, and we bonded over dinner. Not easy, caring for two kids by yourself, I said to him. Bob seemed like a great dad—patient with his younger daughter, and he’d even brought scissors to cut her food.
Back at the room, Steve asked Barbara something, and Barbara told him, “You’ll have to ask your mom.” Steve replied, “I don’t have a mother.” That was how we found out Bob was divorced—and that this wasn’t a one-time, dad’s-got-the-kids-for-the-weekend thing. He does this all the time.
Then I said to Barbara: it all makes sense now, because of the scissors. Barbara was confused. Scissors? Yes, scissors. When was the last time you saw a dad bring scissors to cut up his kid’s food? Bringing scissors is a primary caretaker move. Not a weekend-parent move.
The next morning we’d opted for the 7am breakfast slot. This hotel is unique—you have to book your meal times ahead. As we headed down to the restaurant, who do we see? Bob and his two kids, of course. We were one of the only families up that early, probably because we were among the few who weren’t hungover.
After breakfast, both families went for a swim. Justin and I jumped in right away. Steve and his sister aren’t the swimmers Justin is, but they had their floaties on, so it was good times all around. Once he got the kids settled, Bob stepped away for a second. I assumed he’d gone to take a shit—only to return a few minutes later with a bucket of ice and a paper cup. He reached into his bag and pulled out the leftover whisky from the night before.
For all my alcoholic ways, I’ve never had whisky at 8 in the morning. And I’m the last person to judge anyone when it comes to drinking. Bob wasn’t pounding it back—just sipping, here and there, while caring for his two kids. If you’ve read my earlier writing, you know I can’t imagine being a single parent to one child. Imagine being one to two.
I looked at Bob and understood immediately: he needed that drink. The scene from the movie The Family Man popped into my head—Nicolas Cage drinking whisky from a paper cup, saying “you must’ve needed this everyday,” holding that bottle of The Glenlivet 12 Year in his hands. Like the alternate-reality Jack Campbell, the two kids are his why. Bob can never get sick. Bob can never get drunk like the other parents and hand the kids off to someone else. While they nursed their hangovers and pushed breakfast to a later slot, Bob had chosen not to get drunk the night before and kept the kids on a normal schedule. This moment, right here—this was his vacation. The moment he could sneak a sip while the kids splashed in the pool.
I looked at Bob enjoying these little moments while being the rock for his kids, and I couldn’t help but think about life, responsibility, and selfish needs. Bob clearly puts his kids’ needs first and his own last—and I’ve seen plenty of divorced parents do the complete opposite.
And I haven’t quite figured it out yet, but maybe that’s the whole thing. Maybe the midlife crisis for men my age is about guys like Bob—who put everyone else’s priorities ahead of their own needs. Years of putting yourself last, telling yourself there’ll be time later, until one morning you do the math and realize you don’t have much time left. Bob already knows his why. He doesn’t get to defer it; it’s sitting in the pool with floaties on. Me, I’m still up at 5:30 on a Sunday doing the arithmetic. And the scary part isn’t that I don’t have an answer. It’s wondering whether I’ve left myself enough time to act on it once I do.