My Secret Identity

Hobby: a pursuit outside one's regular occupation engaged in especially for relaxation. Merriam Webster Dictionary

I am one of peculiar pass times. In my culture it is common for a man of my age and social position to enjoy watching sports; namely Hockey, Football and NASCAR.

For some reason this doesn't appeal to me. And it isn't some inclination away from activities that portray groups of mostly men in Gladiatorial themed competitions.

Ok, maybe it is, but I'm smart enough not to point out that Freud would have a few words for the most virulent of that fan base. Especially when they watch the sport live and half naked.

I will be in trouble for that one methinks.

My hobbies are ironically presumed less characteristic of a man. Writing, acting, classical music and of course, cooking. I have only recently been re-instated to the kitchen at my home.

I was once allowed to be a cook right after we were married. It took a Christmas dinner party conversation on the finer points of pastry creation to convince my wife that I belonged elsewhere. She simply said 'I need somewhere where I'm better than you.' My reply of 'you COULD practise for the bedroom' was thankfully held until now.

Another one that just got me in trouble.

Nonetheless my re-introduction to the culinary mastery came from a series of business trips that wore out my wife's palette for fast food and frozen pizza. By the way she is a great cook and has a higher success rate on recipes, I think because she follows them.

I was making homemade pizza this week, reviewing my favourite cooking show as I did it, when she asked:

Her: Why are you trying to do it perfectly?
Me: Because I love doing this. Do me a favour, turn up the Rossini on the stereo please.
Her: But why don't you just let it be good enough?
Me: Because in my day job I never get to see anything like this.
Her: A lump of dough?
Me: A COMPLETED work. Of my own hands. My chief challenge of my day job is heroically struggling against a bureaucracy that measures jobs in fortnights.

And so in a floury rant at my wife I discovered why I pursue creative outlets like that. My job is so mind-numbingly unimportant that being able to make a perfect pizza becomes not only an obsession, it becomes my secret identity. And not the one that involves flying using underarm deodorant.
The pizza crust was a bit of a failure by the way; but at least I enjoyed the short journey to 'eww Dad, this tastes ucky'. It's far better than the much longer, boring epic quest to be given an award certificate with my name misspelled on it.

So what do you do to escape the insignificance of your contribution to your place of employment?