Calm. That’s the word. Sometimes relaxed, but mostly calm. This has been my assigned label for the past several years by casual acquaintances and coworkers. I get it. Sort of. But it just means we’ve never played a board game together, nor engaged in any kind of competitive activity. Rolling dice, dealing cards, cracking a croquet ball, and I’m likely a raging menace. Which is why after 171 recorded games of rummy, Eric is calling for a cessation in game play.

… I get it.

I want to be cool, I do. I’m not proud of the number of times I’ve overturned boards and pieces during family game nights. I’m still embarrassed by that afternoon when I was 14, throwing a miniature golf club manically around hole #12 in town, with my daddio vowing to never bring me back again. I have managed to rein in my bad behavior over the years, but this new rummy obsession has been my un-fucking-doing. Eric is the enemy. I’m demented with my desire to win. I now require deep breaths and closed eyes to restrain my impulses to throw cards and bang fists upon every dramatic loss. And I think what the eff is going on?
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For the record: on truly important matters in life, my behaviors are much more mature and optimistic. I’m not usually such a demon, I promise.

-K

^Speaking of undoings, let’s chat about how making mushroom and butternut risotto with Bulgarian sheep’s feta should only be attempted by the bravest of campervan cooks. Nightmare. But a delicious one.