Life loves a good plot twist. If you’d have told me years ago that I’d marry a man who’s my exact height, wears the same shoe size, has legs smoother than a baby’s behind, and let’s be real – rocks a smaller butt than I do, I would have asked you what you were smoking. And the biggest twist? He’s Asian! So, yeah, new motto: never say never!
Clearly, life doesn’t always go as we’d hoped, as I never thought divorce would be a part of my story either. But here I am. While the cultural differences in my second marriage often shook things up, several I’ve learned to accept, and a few I’ve even grown surprisingly fond of.
Being married to an Asian man has come with its share of culture shocks, quirks, and let’s call them “translation adventures.” A prime example? Texting. Over the years, I’ve learned that often what he reads and interprets is not at all what I intended. He’ll come home from work, holding up his phone as if it’s Exhibit A, asking, “What’s this mean? In my not surprisingly sarcastic way, I reply saying these words ever so slowwwwly… “Y o u s p e a k n o E n g l i s h?” For some reason, he doesn’t see the humor in that. But I always do!
So, I’ve had to learn to craft my messages so they’re clear, direct and complete. Complete means it ends with an emoji. Emojis aren’t just optional – they’re essential. Maybe it’s because he’s a physician and spends his day interpreting pain scales – those silly little cartoon faces telling you how miserable someone feels. If I don’t at least respond with a thumbs-up, a heart, or something that says, “I’m here. I read it,” he doesn’t just think I’m busy, he thinks I’m being dismissive. Like I read his message, shrugged, and walked away. Of course I would never think of doing such a thing.
Being married to an Asian also has included some genuinely funny and heartwarming moments among the cultural confusion. Most of those adventures take place in the shed surrounded by his cronies.
Now, when I say shed, I mean the “man cave,” referring to the majestic retreat tucked inside a big ol’ metal outbuilding, not far from the house. It’s not fancy. It’s got a kitchen, some questionable furniture and absolutely no pressure for me to clean the house when company comes over. Every wife needs a man cave. It’s a survival strategy for marriage. A win/win for both parties.
When his Asian buddies gather there, it’s casual, loud, warm, has the lingering scent of a cigar, and always an abundance of the best food. Holy moly can these guys cook! Every visit is a culinary celebration, and they roll in with enough food and drinks to feed a small village.
Generally, it’s men’s night in the shed, but every now and then I like to make a guest appearance. I’ll wander down to say hi and share a beer with the crew. There’s never a lack of conversation. And by conversation, I mean 5 men all talking to me at the exact same time… about 5 different subjects.
I never know who to give my attention to, so I just smile and let my head bob in agreement – turning from side to side like I’m watching the world’s most confusing tennis match. I try to give one person my attention, but then I hear a “Lisa,” and I whip my head in that direction, only to realize the first guy is still going, completely unfazed. To the guy who now has my attention, he’s so far into his topic, I’m completely clueless. Apparently, in this circle of friends, eye contact is optional.
At some point I’ll catch my husband’s eye from across the table. He’s laughing, fully aware of the chaos unfolding, and thoroughly entertained by my helplessness. He knows I struggle enough just to pay attention to one person talking, let alone 5. Between the talking all at once, I have no clue what anybody’s talking about, but I leave oddly flattered that I was the VIP on everyone’s conversational guest list. Just don’t ask me what we discussed.
Cultural differences sneak in, but once I hear the why behind their reason for doing something a certain way, I generally find it incredibly endearing. Take round tables, for instance. My husband hates long rectangular tables, generally found in American restaurants. Why? Because they’re the enemy of equality. You can only talk to who’s next to you or directly across. But a round table? Now you’re talking equality. Everyone sees everyone. Everyone’s included. At a round table, everyone’s got a voice. And somehow, they all use it at once.
On occasion, when the adult kids and grandkids come home, we go out for Chinese at a favorite restaurant – the one with round tables, naturally. Now that we’re all situated around the table with everyone visible, everyone audible, everyone into 5 different stories, (just kidding), it’s time to order.
The American way? Easy. Pick your entrée, guard it with your fork, maybe offer a bite if someone begs. But in my husband’s world, we share. That means family-style ordering and that is where the Lazy Susan spins into action. The food goes on, we give her a whirl, and you take a small sampling out of each of the many entrees directly in front of you.
The idea of family style ordering is endearing. It’s about sharing and everyone getting to have a little bite of everything. Which is beautiful…unless you were really counting on having ALL that Mongolian beef to yourself. And as for leftovers? They aren’t merely a by-product of this great family-style smorgasbord, they’re intentional. Because what’s more satisfying than walking out with four drippy Styrofoam takeout boxes, and the sweet promise of tomorrow’s lunch, dinner and midnight snack?
Grab your favorite cocktail and raise your glass in a toast: “To the overlapping conversations and head nods, to the smooth-legged man I married, who swears it’s because he’s further evolved from the apes, and to learning that beneath every cultural quirk is a value like sharing or equality that makes the whole beautiful mess make sense. CHEERS!”
