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 i
t 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.
After I tackled my car, there was only one thing left to do: prepare for adventure. There’s no shortage of resources out there advising on how to maximize your D&D character. I’ve got several books touting just that on my bookshelf, in fact. It’s like R&D is made up of a gaggle of Judys, which is weird considering I don’t think any of them are mothers. I select a handful of books from my shelf and start researching. Let the spontaneity begin! Wait, it’s 7:00. I’ll get started right after E! News. I promise.
MONDAY
EXPECT THE UNEXPECTED. THEN EAT IT.
Obviously, if I wanted to live like a Tabitha, I had to break the hardest habit of all. Tabitha doesn’t know where her next meal is coming from, let alone exactly what it is. At least for the next five days. I spent half of Sunday looking for my Crock-Pot and the rest finding various recipes for vegetarian chili. Is everyone an expert on how to turn a few cans of beans and diced tomatoes into thirteen weeks of lunches? Man, one Google search turned up about 4,829 results. I guess millions of 1970s crock-pot cooking households were right after all. (Unless you count key parties and high-waisted bell-bottoms. Those were definitely wrong. I’m talking to you, Jessica Simpson.)
I didn’t mean to make so much food, but that darn Crock-Pot took one kidney bean and churned out about four pounds of chili. Those things are amazing! (Look for me on an infomercial near you.)
I love chili, and this batch is pretty darn good, if I do say so myself (thankfully, considering how much I made). The ban on veggie burgers shouldn’t be a problem at all.
When lunchtime rolled around on Monday, I forced myself to finish a project I was working on before I allowed myself to go to the kitchen. I’m all about prolonging the agony and the payoff. Usually I’m in there between 12:05 and 12:17 every day, and so are lots of other people, as I always see the same bunch waiting for the microwave. My body is apparently used to being fed between 12:05 and 12:17 and it was starting to express its displeasure at the delay.
“Oh my God, was that an earthquake?” Laura asked.
“No, I think a train just went by,” I answered, and much to my delight no one questioned this, even though there aren’t any train tracks nearby.
It was my stomach, but I wasn’t about to admit that. My sugar levels were dropping faster than Project Runway’s ratings after moving to the Lifetime channel. If I prolong the agony any longer I’ll be at risk of getting a write up from HR for:
A. Yelling at a co-worker
B. Throwing scissors at a co-worker
C. Taking a bite out of a co-worker
I’m in the kitchen at 12:19. Success! I lived outside of my comfort zone.
If it’s one thing I can rely on more than my food scale, it’s my lack of a short-term memory. I couldn’t find my lunch! I mean, there was my lunch bag (it’s gold lamé so it’s pretty easy to spot) but that wasn’t my lunch inside. Instead of the usual tin foil square and small Tupperware container filled with carrots, it was a large Tupperware bowl and a small Ziploc bag filled with blue corn tortilla chips.
“Aw, man!” I groaned when the realization hit me. “It’s chili!”
A different batch of co-workers were in the kitchen heating up their lunches as this was not my regular kitchen time.
“Do you have someone else make your lunch?” one asked.
I scoffed at the preposterous notion. Who did this person think I was? Oprah?
“No,” I said. “I make my lunch!”
She raised an eyebrow. “Weird. Did you make that like fourteen years ago or something?”
“No.”
“Then how did you not know what you were having for lunch?”
Okay, these 12:19 people sure are nosy. The 12:05ers would be much too busy debating the new chip choices the vending machine had to offer to even hear my complaints.
“I just forgot, okay?” I made a big to-do out of tearing the lid off the Tupperware and throwing it at the microwave. I should have just emptied the whole thing in the trash and gone to Kidd Valley for a veggie burger, but I feared my hunger would negatively impact my driving abilities. Besides, that chili had a tendency to multiply. If I tossed it in the garbage it was liable to regenerate as a swarm of bees and mow down my co-workers on its way to punish me. That for sure would be an HR violation.
Aw, suck it up, Tabitha said. Try eating journeybread for thirty-three days straight.
“I would love that, Tabitha. Sounds right up my alley.”
“Who is Tabitha?” Nosy co-worker number 2 asked.
Oh, I so don’t like this 12:19 p.m. kitchen crowd.
“Oh, never mind,” I mumbled to her stupid face. (Author’s note: She doesn’t have a stupid face. That was the chili talking.)
Back at my desk, I tried to regain some of the enthusiasm I had yesterday for the chili. Wasn’t I Googling chili cook-offs so I could enter my sure-to-be famous chili? If the contestants on Big Brother can eat slop week after week, certainly I could eat this for lunch. But whose dumb idea was it to include apple slices for dessert? I made a note to stop at the co-worker’s desk that I normally avoid because she always has a bowl of chocolates ready for the taking. I’ll do that on my way to HR to turn myself in.
When Laura got back to her desk she asked, “What smells so good?”
Seriously? What was wrong with these people?
As I was about to write up my own incident report, I noticed something written on my napkin. It’s inscribed just like Judy used to do, but it’s my handwriting.
“Change Happens,” it reads.
Sometimes I hate me.
TUESDAY
USE PROTECTION (AND WE’RE NOT TALKING ARMOR)
I thought I’d be soy-deep in veggie burger withdrawal by today but I’m still associating them with my wackadoodle neighbor’s plantar warts, so for now I can resi
st. Today I bring a Field Roast sandwich loaded up with sprouts, avocado, and pickles. Yum! But it didn’t fill me up like my usual fare did. Maybe it contained less fiber. Maybe it’s subconscious. Or maybe I was just looking for an excuse to get a bag of Sun Chips and Fudge Stripes cookies out of the vending machine. Fudge Stripes cookies are food of the gods!
My friend Audra and I decide to meet at Panera Bread for dinner. A Mediterranean sandwich and Greek salad will more than make up for my less-than-stellar lunch. (Excluding the amazing Fudge Stripes cookies. I’d almost give up carrots altogether for another taste of them.) I was at a red light near the mall when I noticed a strange aroma emanating from nearby. Nearby, as in from my body.
“What the heck?” I muttered. I took two showers today, one in the morning and one after that hellaciously hard workout in our company gym—the only space in the building that appears to be free from air conditioning. If there’s one area I should be a little flexible with it’s my workout times. If working out at my usual 3:00 p.m. time means passing out from heatstroke and sporting a magenta, sweaty face for the rest of the afternoon, then by all means, I should go in the morning.
But that smell. That’s not a stench that emanates from me. That’s an odor reserved for high school gyms and New York City subways. In fact, I take lots of steps to ensure this is a smell that I’m never responsible for. Was it possible I forgot to put deodorant on after that second shower? I got some new lotion and I was excited to use it. (It won an Allure beauty award. Tell me that’s not exciting!) Perhaps my excitement caused me to forgo a very important step?
Experiment aside, my personal hygiene should not be sacrificed, nor should Audra’s pleasant dining experience. I mean, would Tabitha set forth without a sunrod and some tindersticks? Or maybe a sprig of lavender tucked in her rucksack in case she found herself in a glandular emergency? The bloom can come off even the most expensively scented rose.
Everything I Need to Know I Learned from Dungeons & Dragons Page 13