Everything I Need to Know I Learned from Dungeons & Dragons (18 page)

“What's wrong with enjoying a good ritual now and again?” I asked my friend Jodi as we walked the path around Green Lake. (
Counterclockwise
, because everyone with any sense knows that's the
right
way to walk around Green Lake.) And I'm not talking “ritual” in the same sense Tabitha, my wizard, might enjoy one.

“A ritual?” she asked. “Or a routine?”

“What's the difference?”

“A ritual is more of a ceremony,” she explained. “A routine is a habit. One might even say a rut.”

“Well, one might be wrong,” I said. “I'm not in a rut or stuck in a routine. I just like things a certain way.”

Jodi scoffed. “To say the least.”

“Hey, we went on vacation together. Do you think I'm hard to live with?”

“Ooh,” she said as she squirmed. “I'm not sure it's the same thing. We had room service and housekeepers, not to mention separate beds. But
Bart is pretty laid back. I'm sure he knows what he'd be getting himself into if he moves in.”

If.
There's that word again. Why can't I pull the trigger on this? There's no one I'd rather spend time with than Bart. Plus, if he moved in, I could maybe start using some of the gazillion recipes I've collected over the years instead of opening a can of beans and a jar of salsa and calling it a night.

“I'm trying to be as honest as I can be. I've lived there for twelve years. Every nook and cranny in that place is filled with stuff.
My
stuff.”

“Good reason to get rid of the clutter,” Jodi said. “We could have a garage sale!”

I glared at her.

“Not that your stuff is clutter,” she backpedaled. “It's perfectly useful and necessary stuff. All of it.”

Ah, who am I fooling? Even though I make at least one trip a month to Goodwill it doesn't mean I couldn't do with a lot less. “You know what? I just found a winter coat from eleven years ago. I kept it as my ‘dog walking' coat. I haven't had a dog in six years. Maybe I am in a rut.”

“Why? Just because every Sunday we come to Green Lake,” Jodi said. “Not one of the other nineteen thousand parks in Seattle. And we have to walk counterclockwise because you said that's the ‘right' way to walk around. Oh, and I think you always wear the same pants.”

What? Now Jodi is on Team Judy? When did she start recruiting my friends?

“Okay, there is a
right
way to walk around the lake. Everyone knows that. I walked
the wrong way
once and nearly pulled my hamstring. Coincidence? And yes, I probably do wear these pants on Sundays because Saturday is laundry day and my good workout pants are air drying.”

Jodi laughed. “Well, I like Green Lake. And I love traveling with you because I know if I forgot something, you'd be able to replace it. Your carry-on bag is like the offspring of a Seven-Eleven and a Nordstrom.”

It's true and not just for carry-on bags. My glove compartment is like hotel gift shop. But if there's one thing I know how to do, it's pack a suitcase. Have you any regard for how hard it is to pack everything that matters in one 22” x 14” x 9” bag? Sure, Judy is right. I don't live in a third-world country, and I seldom have to travel to one, so chances are good that if I ran out of conditioner I could always buy more. But it might not be
my
conditioner! My hair and therefore my well-being will suffer the consequences.

This is a bit of a problem in my relationship. Bart is a man of little baggage (and I'm not just talking about the emotional kind). He once got on a cross-country flight to visit my family and me with only his car keys, iPhone, and wallet. That's it. Not even a book, because as he explains, “It
was a red-eye and I wanted to sleep.” Who does that? I mean, the airlines, as stingy as they are, allow you to have up to two carry-on bags! You need to take them up on that.

Of course Bart's connection was canceled, he was rerouted to an airport an hour and fifteen minutes away from my parent's house in upstate New York, and my dad and I had to drive to Ithaca to retrieve him. I brought him a bag of toiletries (from my own TSA-approved personal collection) and a change of clothes (from my brother's closet) and took him to a bathroom at a state park to freshen up. For two days I made him repeatedly explain why he decided to get a on a plane with no carry-on bags.

“I didn't need anything,” he explained. Again.

“Of course you needed something!” What was wrong with this guy? “A toothbrush, three days worth of clothes, a digital camera, trail mix,
US Weekly
, a bathing suit, two pairs of shoes (at least), a first aid kit, a can opener, contacts cleaner, ear plugs, slippers. A couple of paperbacks. The list goes on!”

(And the list exists as an Excel spreadsheet. I'll e-mail it to you if you want.)

Sure, there might be a happy medium between my hypercompulsion and Bart's laissez-faire attitude. I'm just not comfortable enough to find it.

As for routines, yep, I've got them. I watch
Good Morning America
every morning preshower and then yesterday's recording of
All My Children
postshower. If I'm good about fast-forwarding through all the commercials, it runs for exactly as long as it takes for me to get ready.

When I come home from work, I prepare dinner. (Either a can of black beans, salsa, sour cream, and half an avocado
or
four soy nuggets from Trader Joe's. Both options include a massive salad with romaine lettuce, dried cranberries, fat-free feta cheese, mushrooms, and cherry tomatoes.) I watch
E! News
while I prepare dinner and something from my DVR while I eat. Maybe two half-hour episodes of
House Hunters
or a full hour of something like Kathy Griffin's
My Life on the D-List.
There are shows to watch while eating dinner, as opposed to the shows to watch while balancing your checkbook (
Top Chef
); shows to watch while in a complete vegetative state (
Say Yes to the Dress, Bridezillas
); and shows to watch as a reward for being productive (
Mad Men, Project Runway
).

Sex and the City
called these things “secret single behavior”—the secret habits you would never let your significant other catch you doing. I call it “truth in advertising.” I believe it's important to let all the bad stuff out right away. It's the same reason I don't wear foundation or cover up pimples or wear … er … form-falsifying under-thingies. I couldn't bear the look of disappointment when the curtain was lifted. It's not like I'm
concealing a smaller zit under the gigantic one on my chin. What you see is exactly what you get.

Although I might not subject Bart to it, I don't hide any of these things from him, either. It's not like I went on about my love of the History Channel and then acted all confused about how a
What Not to Wear
marathon invaded 98% of my DVR space. In fact, I've seen
House Hunters
on his own DVR (because he won't delete anything!). And he's watched enough snippets of
All My Children
to be able to inject commentary like, “Ryan had another aneurism?” or “Scott and Marissa slept together? What hypocrites!”

Now, let's talk about lunch. What I eat has proven to be a major source of contention for Bart and a huge source of entertainment for my co-workers. Why? I don't know.

“Because you eat the same exact thing every single day!” Bart explains (unsolicited).

“So?” I counter.

“Stupid, cold veggie burger with the same amount of ketchup and honey mustard,” he goes on. “Same amount of carrots. Same little, tiny chocolate bar for dessert.”

Hmm. Maybe there are some behaviors you shouldn't let your significant other be privy to.

He's right, though. I do eat the same thing. Veggie burger wrapped in a tortilla shell, eight ounces of steamed carrots, and one tiny piece of chocolate to clean the palate. In my defense, I change the seasoning on my carrots. Sometimes it's Jamaican jerk, sometimes it's lemon and pepper. So there. I'm a regular renegade when it comes to spices. I will only go out to lunch if it's a co-worker's birthday or if something major happened at work and we all want to talk about it. I will loosen up on weekends.

Bart used to send me studies and statistics he'd find on the Internet about how soy is bad for you and eating the same thing every day wreaks havoc on your metabolism and 89% of veggie burgers actually contain beef. Again, unsolicited. I thought women were supposed to choose men who were like their fathers.

“What?” I asked regarding the last alleged survey he unearthed. “Says who?”

“Uhh … me?” he admitted. “I just wanted to see if you'd eat a baked potato or Subway sandwich if I told you the leading soy bean producer donated money to a mink-raising farm.”

People are fascinated by my lunch. Seriously. Just as I am fascinated with their cans of soup or leftover pizzas or frozen Lean Cuisines. Sometimes a different one every day!

And seeing as we're on the topic, I'll confess another one. I'm a rules abider. Like, annoyingly so. No parking? Okay, fine. I'll keep moving. Please take one? Sure! One is all I need. I've seen Bart angry two times in the six years that I've known him, and both times it was due to my unwillingness to allow him to break a rule.

The worst time happened just recently, when we were flying home from Idaho. He put his backpack in the overhead space (above someone else's seat but let's not go
there
) and then tried putting his laptop in the overhead space above his chair. Sound the alarm! Everyone knows one personal item goes under the seat in front of you. You have no idea the amount of dread I experience before boarding a plane. And no, it's got nothing to do with terrorists or lazy mechanics. That whole pack-my-life-in-a-carry-on thing? Well, fat lot of good it's gonna do if they make me gate-check my bag. And because my bladder is even more high maintenance than I am, I have to sit on the aisle, which means I'm going to be one of the last zones to board. If even half of the passengers who board before me have the barefaced disregard for airplane etiquette that Bart exhibits, there's not going to be room for my appropriately sized and laboriously packed suitcase. And that, my friends, fills every cell in my hyperparanoid body with apprehension.

I had no choice but to call Bart out. Surely there were others in zone four like me. And surely my good karma for ratting out my boyfriend would one day ensure that my carry-on bag miraculously finds solace in an oversold airline situation.

His response was rather snarky, and that surprised me. “It's not like there's a rule about it.”

“Um, yes there is!” I shouted (maybe loud enough so that the people sitting within five rows in either direction could hear). “And you're going to get some bad travel karma if you disobey it.”

“Is that so?” he snickered, still not making a move to retrieve either of his bags from overhead. “That's the actual cause and effect of this little situation? You put two bags overhead—when there's plenty of space to do so—and on your next flight you have to sit by a baby with an ear infection?”

“And digestive issues.”

I know that gives him pause. The only thing worse than dog poop is baby poop. What are they eating, anyway? But it didn't give him
enough
pause because he just kicks back in his seat and makes a big production out of stretching his legs all the way under the seat in front of him.

“Ahhh …”

“You will pay,” I told him.

“Nobody cares,” he whispered. “Just chill out.”