Confession: I love board games. More than most people do. More than most people should. And I blame that fully on my family. My rowdy, yelling, laughing, loving, viciously competitive family. Who, as long as I remembered, commemorates any family gathering by playing games at all hours of the night and reminiscing past games played where someone did or said something hysterically funny or painfully embarrassing (or often both). My family, they don’t forget. Stories are told and re-told, and even passed on by the next generation. Like ones about acting out cellphone in Guesstures, and stuff like that.
Confession: I’m really competitive. Not like oh-I-really-want-to-beat-you-but-if-I-lose-it’s-ok-and-I’ll-shake-your-hand-after-the-game kind of competitive. More like there-are-few-things-I-wouldn’t-do-to-win-and-I-probably-won’t-be-sorry-about-it kind of competitive. The kind that gives death stares and will play until 5 a.m. if I’m not the one winning. The kind that sometimes considers putting salt in my husband’s coffee if he wins or trash-talks too much (and boy is he good at that trash-talking…he knows all the right buttons to push…).
Confession: I hit a girl this week. A house guest, actually. Yeah, I know. It’s bad. But a tiny living room + Wii tennis + competitive Susannah sometimes = physical harm. It was unintentional, I promise. But as we played Wii, and this amateur started to take the lead on my game of Wii at my house, competitive mode kicked into high gear. My surroundings begin to fade, and it was tunnel vision to the tv… all that matters is winning. Hitting that ball harder than she can handle. And somewhere in my tunnel vision, she stepped into my swing (or maybe, just maybe I stepped towards her…) and I whacked her. Wii remote and all. Probably left a bruise. Yeah, that’s what you get when you try to beat me on my turf (just kidding)…I felt pretty bad. She didn’t play Wii the rest of the night.
There’s this genetic disease in my family. And it’s serious. It starts at a very young age, and grows stronger with every year of life. It roots deep, and cannot be extracted easily. The street term? competitiveness.
Just ask anyone in my family…or my husband…or anyone who has ever played games with us. Or my 6 year old nephews. I fear (for all those happy, apathetic game players out there) that all descendants of Marlowe blood are destined to be…winners. (or very sore losers).
Oh, and by the way, a verrrrrrry HAPPY belated EASTER!!!