I discovered the game mahjong on my computer a few weeks ago when I was too tired to read but not ready for bed. In case you’ve never played it, computer mahjong is a seemingly mindless game in which you click on two identical patterned tiles, thus making them disappear in a puff of simulated smoke. You keep this up until all the tiles are gone. It is simple yet addictive, like “South Park” cartoons, only with better visuals.
I showed mahjong to my husband, and he was instantly enthralled. I watched him play a few rounds, thoughtfully stepping in with hints when he seemed to be at an impasse. This is how I can attest to the fact that spectator mahjong is, hands down, the most tedious, sleep-inducing activity on Earth, stealing the honor right out from under televised professional fishing and webinars.
A few nights ago, I came in from a dinner engagement to discover my husband wide-eyed and shaky on the sofa. He had been playing mahjong for hours, and the stress of it had clearly taken its toll.
“Good news,” he said hoarsely. “I think I’m close to figuring out the strategy.”
Which quite frankly depressed me. It was like being told that before you can pet your dogs, you must first make a plan. Will you hug all three at once, Oreo-cookie style, or separate them and hug one at a time? Will you scratch them under the chin, rub the fur in a nose-to-tail pattern, or keep your focus on ears? I just want to do what comes naturally. In the case of dogs, just get in there and get my hands on them. In the case of mahjong, just click some tiles and go to bed.
When I was younger, I sported a fundamentally noncompetitive nature. In elementary school I loved horseback riding but hated the mock shows in which I was forced to participate. In high school I could volley a tennis ball for hours, but mention keeping score, and I started hitting balls over the fence and into the highway. In graduate school, I loved nothing more than tossing around a volleyball, bluffing my way through misunderstood poker rules and playing pool with my boyfriend and a few of our classmates at the local bar.
One evening, happily shooting away at the eight ball, I turned around just as my boyfriend and my professor were shaking their heads.
“She just doesn’t see the angles,” said my boyfriend. My professor nodded sadly.
Truth was, I did see the angles, but I’d quickly tired of trying to hit them. And anyway, wasn’t the fun of pool seeing what happened when you poked randomly into the cluster of multicolored balls with a long, shiny stick?
Turns out, not if you’re anyone but me.
I asked my husband not to talk to me about his mahjong strategy, because I think it’s possible that, in the years since graduate school, I’ve become more competitive. Didn’t I get an iPhone when all our friends stuck with Verizon? I fear that if he tutors me in strategy, I will no longer be able to click tiles mindlessly and will begin to think exclusively in terms of outcome. Which would promote mahjong from the brain-numbing, insomnia-busting time waster it is to something that actually matters.
Then, at the end of my long list of daily to-dos — finish a painting, get soy milk, take dogs to the vet, pay the mortgage — the game will hover over me like a threat: Important mahjong match tonight at 10! Carb load and dress for comfort!
I just couldn’t take the pressure.
E-mail Dana Shavin at danalise@juno.com.