9. Lose at Jenga.

9jenga.png

There’s no sadder realization than the discovery that all of your board games are missing too many pieces to be played properly. You can’t play Pictionary – the cards have vanished. You can’t play Mousetrap – the man who jumps into the tub is gone. And you can’t even summon up the fiery demons of hell – the whereabouts of the Ouija planchette are currently unknown. Some board game night/séance this is turning out to be.

Suddenly, a long, slender box appears from the mists. A blocky, wooden angel. A tribe of tiny Logs of Salvation, numbering four dozen and six. The answer becomes clear. It’s time to play Jenga.

You eagerly but ever so carefully pull the clear plastic guiding sheath out of the box and gingerly set it upon the table. You hover and fuss around the shaky tower, preening the blocks like a world-renowned sculptor until not a single piece is out of place. There. It’s beautiful. You’re the Michaelangelo of wood, and this magnificent column is your David.

But the time has come to make it…higher.

You begin to play as if this were a job interview for an illustrious contracting position. You remove the blocks one at a time, with both skill and finesse. You evaluate various scenarios, attempting to determine whether you should play it safe by removing a center piece, or take the potentially fateful risk of dislodging what you declare to be a “wiggly” side one. It’s a technical term, you wouldn’t expect anyone else to understand. You run calculations, draw up complex physics formulas, check wind resistance, and analyze the integrity of the wood. You’re not taking any chances. This is Jenga, dammit. It’s not just a game. It’s a game with an obscure, possibly foreign, name. So you know it’s important.

And you just so happen to be dominating this epic battle of strategy and balance. Your hand is so steady, a mountain of crystal could be build upon it, not unlike a display table at Crate and Barrel. You place the little wooden pieces atop their precarious perch, obnoxiously shushing everyone else at the table as you do so. It’s your right. Your privilege.

Higher and higher it grows, reaching towards the heavens, a miniature Tower of Babel. But, much like its Biblical counterpart, your shaky creation has angered the Lord. He’s in a smiting mood, and you and your puny little bricks have fallen directly into his crosshairs. With a shaking hand and a sweaty brow, you delicately place your block onto the pile, but with the entirety of the weight now being supported by a single load-bearing center beam, your efforts are sure to be futile. A slight quiver, a terrifying wobble, and several high-pitched and rather embarrassing shrieks later, your masterful metropolis is gone, leaving nothing but a depressing pile of rubble and the tattered remains of your dreams and dignity.

So if you want to suck, lose at Jenga. You’ll forever be known as the one who couldn’t accomplish the simple task of stacking blocks on top of each other, despite the fact that you first learned this skill all the way back in preschool. Guess the years of practice haven’t paid off after all.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: