Everything I Need to Know I Learned from Dungeons & Dragons (19 page)

Oooh!
Just chill out.
I hate it when people tell me that!

No sooner did the flight attendant come on the intercom and explain that this was a full flight and, yes, they did in fact care where your carry-on baggage went.

“Please use the overhead space above for your larger carry-ons and the space under the seat in front of you for smaller personal items, like laptops and pocketbooks.”

“Oh, really?” I said as I smiled. “That's so weird. There
is
a rule where your bags should go.”

“I'll tell you where your bags can go,” Bart said as he laughed, pulling his laptop down from above and shoving it under the seat in front. And then he made a spectacle out of trying to stretch his feet and them getting all caught up in the canvas muck under the seat.

“My shins!” he bellowed. “Oh, God, they feel like they're stuck in a meat grinder!”

“Really, Bart? A meat grinder? That's what it feels like?”

The guy next to him, and that would be the middle seat if you're minding the details, was about six foot nine and sound asleep. I pointed him out to Bart.

“He's not asleep,” Bart said. “He's unconscious from the pain. It's unbearable!”

The woman to my right laughed with us. “You're
so
getting married,” she said.

“You're
so
channeling my mother right now.”

Please make no mistake—I don't want to be like this. I know people are stashing more than one personal item in the overhead bins just as sure as they're bringing more than two personal items on board. (A rollerboard suitcase, purse, and Starbucks shopping bag are—count 'em—
three
bags.
Three!
And no, I'm not buying that's your baby's backpack just like I don't think having a baby in the backseat should count as a carpool.) But still, I don't want to tattle on these people—I want to be them!

In kindergarten my teacher was staunchly against tattling. So much so that if we dared rat out a fellow classmate, we were forced to wear The Tattle Tail. Yes, Mrs. Fox would pin a ratted, old, beaded belt to the elastic bands of our pants and send us out, branded as a nark, into the wilds of crafts and nap times. (I still think letting the world know that Benjamin Grovers was sticking his boogers in my crayon box was worth the humiliation.)

Creative use of a homophone there, Mrs. Fox, but perhaps I would have benefited more from a little afterschool adventuring with Dungeons & Dragons. What deters so many from getting involved with D&D is what
appeals to me—the many layers of seemingly complex rules. No, I don't know every one of them. Not even close. But I guess I find some comfort in knowing that even in my fantasyland, there are certain things that
just can't happen.
Or so I thought.

It was this concept that prevented me from trying my hand at Dungeon Mastering even though I was secretly dying to. I can make up stories! I can make up characters! I can be the center of attention! But I didn't know all the rules and therefore I would surely lead a trusting band of adventurers right into a gargoyle-filled chasm or worse—a terrible time. It was unfathomable!

It wasn't until the very same people who make the rules gave me permission to break the rules that I learned to loosen up a bit.

“What do you mean I have the freedom to make things up?” I argued with Mike Mearls, Group Manager for Dungeons & Dragons Research and Development. “It's your job to
put rules in writing
! Why go through all that trouble if you don't care what people do with the rules?”

“Because we want people to have fun,” he explained simply.

It sunk in, albeit slowly. Like when I D Med a game for my parents who up until that moment kept telling people D&D was like the game of Life except with a dungeon. Oh, and a few dragons. My dad kept asking where the board was.

“No spinner? No egg timer? I don't get it.”

Obviously I wanted them to have fun, and part of the fun was beating up monsters and reaping the reward. My mom played a dwarf, who to someone who's barely five feet tall wasn't so much fantasy, but she quickly fell in love with her alter ego, Jubunsky.

“She's very talented in the ways of dwarves,” Judy claimed.

“What ways would those be?” I asked.

“You know, picking things up. Moving heavy objects. Cooking. Cleaning.”

“Sneezing?” my dad asked. He insisted on playing a pirate who was more Captain and Tennille than Captain Kidd.

“Oh, Tom,” Judy sighed. “I'm not
that
kind of dwarf. I'm a big, burly, hairy, testosterone-charged lady dwarf. Like your Aunt Edna.”

Obviously letting my dad play a pirate instead of a paladin was “breaking” the rules. And so were those “math errors” I made allowing Judy's low rolls to hit the javelin-throwing goblins. She was so excited to use her
spinning sweep
power. What choice did I have?

I DMed a few more times for new players, and because I wanted them to have a good time, too, I gave in to the luxury of making up and breaking the rules a fifth of my co-workers labor over. All that pressure to know
every little thing? Nonexistent once I remembered this was a
game.
No one noticed Marcy moved seven squares when her speed was only six. No one cared that if there was a chasm big enough for a gargoyle to fly out of it, the party probably would have seen it when they walked in the room. It wasn't just fun for the players, it was fun for me, too. And because I was having fun, their first impression of D&D was a good one. Man, there's a lot of pressure on Dungeon Masters.

The only thing that has more rules than D&D is, well, me. But if I could loosen the coils on the D&D machine, perhaps I could in real life, too.

D&D adventurers don't have the luxury of waking up every day after the automatic coffeemaker has just finished its final perk. In fact, Tabitha doesn't always get a chance to wake up because chances are she was too busy fighting her way out of a dungeon to sleep. She doesn't travel with Tumi T-Tech rolling suitcases and thirty-seven mini bottles of conditioning agents. She doesn't even get to make her own choices because her fate lies in someone else's hands—mine. Or really the dice. How does she manage?

Judy may be right about one thing. Bart and I taking the next step is a good thing. But if I'm ever going to be okay with sharing my crisper drawer with someone else I should probably figure out how to live like a true adventurer and untether myself from my routine.

“What if I did an experiment where I took my routine totally off the rails and lived like …”

“A normal person?” Jodi asked. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean normal. I meant … no, sorry, again. I did mean normal.”

I nodded. I knew what she meant and she was right, hence my desire to inflict change and hopefully emerge a better person.

“I'll spend a whole week off from my secret behaviors and daily routines,” I said as I planned. “But weekends are mine! If I hate this, I'll need a good forty-eight hours alone with a can of beans and a
Say Yes to the Dress
marathon to feel like myself again.”

“But isn't the point to
not
feel like yourself?” Jodi asked.

“Well, to feel like myself but a self who can do things like wear white after Labor Day without spontaneously combusting.” Egads! I'm sweating just thinking about it. Good thing I always have a stick of deodorant at arm's length. Or had. Before I can properly live like a D&D adventurer I need to do away with all remnants of my civilized life.

“Good lord, this is going to be a long week,” said Jodi.

“What am I supposed to do with these?” my neighbor asked when I brought him a sack full of frozen veggie burgers.

“Whatever you want. Eat them, store them for the zombie apocalypse, write your cryptic, anonymous notes on them. But please make sure to tell them I love them and this was not their fault.”

“But I hate veggie burgers,” he whined. “These will take up valuable freezer real estate that should be used on important things like corn dogs and Tombstone pizza.”

“Oh, fine,” I said, wrenching the sack of soy from his paws. So much for a peace offering. “I wouldn't want you to fall into a nutritional void because of my selfish experimentation.”

I brought the burgers to a second neighbor, this time on my floor. It was a little close to comfort with her being right across the hall. I could practically smell them in her frying pan.

“Veggie burgers,” she cooed. “Right on.” She took the sack and slowly shut the door.

Seriously? No questions? People just show up with random bags of groceries often?

I stuck my foot in the door, preventing her from shutting it. “Don't you even want to know why I'm giving them to you?”

“I know why,” she said, opening the door wide enough to stare at me with one eye while she spoke. “I'm starving, you know, but I can't get up to walk to the store because I have these plantar warts. It's like I manifested these veggie burgers. The universe brought them over.”

Whoa. Has this chick been intercepting my mail? Come to think of it, when
is
the last time I got a package from Judy?

“Um, it's me,” I said, speaking slowly. “The universe did not give you those. I did.”

See? Rules. I want the credit here. Sorry, universe.

“The universe worked through you,” she countered. “You're the messenger.”

Holy cow. This stuff sounds even more like bunk when actual human beings spout it off. “Thanks!” she said, closing the door.

I thought about banging her door knocker (which sounds like a euphemism for this girl's mental state) and demanding my burgers back, but decided to let it go. In a way the universe did give her those veggie burgers. Who am I to argue? Besides, I had more important things to debate, like what I was going to eat for my next ten meals.

That night I supped on veggie dogs and kidney beans. (I usually have black beans, okay? That was a departure for me.) And I geared up for phase two of my what-would-Tabitha-do quest: Lose the baggage.

Oh, har, har,
baggage.
Get it? In this case I mean it in the literal and figurative sense. All that stuff in my glove compartment? It exists in my purse, too. Although it is important for adventurers to be well-equipped before going out into the wilds to fight orcs and bugbears, Tabitha probably doesn't need a worn-down eyeliner nub in a color I haven't worn since 1998, a Library of Congress card (not here in Seattle, or in the Forgotten Realms for that matter), a recipe for cucumber mango salsa (should a cucumber and a mango ever wind up in my purse together with nothing to do), thirteen rubber bands, four headbands, and twenty-seven bobby pins (because my hair grows really fast and I never know what stage it will be in when I go to the gym), a coupon to Bed Bath & Beyond that expired in 2007 (I know they'll still honor it), and The FURminator (I was letting my friend borrow it for her Shih Tzu, okay?).

It all comes out. Everything but the wallet, hand cream, ChapStick, cell phone, pen, and datebook. On second thought I take the datebook out. Would Tabitha care if she had a 3:30 appointment at the consignment shop or Sarah's baby shower on Saturday? Of course not! I'm amazed at how light my purse feels. In an odd, metaphoric way, so do I.

Using that momentum I tackle my “bonus bag,” for lack of a better word. If I had a dollar for every time someone commented on how many bags I was lugging I'd be rich enough to not need a day job and could instead stay indoors all day preparing my earthquake survival kit. (Note to self: Don't forget to put rubber bands and blister plaster in there.)

The bonus bag is what I carry to work every day in addition to my purse. This bag is the vessel for pens (in case I can't find the ones in my purse); a coffee-stained, worn-down informational brochure about Honda's roadside assistance program (I drive a Volvo); my lunch (on the way to work); dirty Tupperware (on the way home from work); and most important: gym clothes. About a week's worth of gym clothes
every day.
You never know what the weather will be like, and I'm sorry, but not having socks is no excuse to skip your workout. Oh, and I should explain that we have a gym
at
work. (I know! How awesome is that?) And even more awesome is that because of me, my less prepared co-workers also don't have the excuse of not having socks to miss
their
workouts. That's why they call me Lady Footlocker. At least I hope that's why they call me Lady Footlocker.

Next stop on the Change Express is taking it to the streets, or rather the parking lot where my car is parked. This is a tough one as I like to treat my car like a mobile Walgreens. Out go the deodorants, lotions, sunscreen, ChapStick, and emergency ponchos. Good-bye Fiber One bars, tissues, more extra gym clothes, TomTom, atlas (holy cow, an atlas? Better save
that for the Smithsonian), aspirin, ice scraper, flip-flops (in case of emergency pedicure), and pens. The only things staying are the owner's manual, insurance card, hand sanitizer, cell phone charger, and the reusable grocery bags in the trunk. No need to pit Mother Nature against Mother Nurture. And okay, maybe the flip-flops. Ruining a perfectly good polish job won't teach me anything.