No, and you can't make me
If someone says to me, “No, I can’t play that and don’t really want to,” I respect what they say. I do not try to force someone into doing something they do not wish to do.
Let’s say we are in some jungle halfway around the world and come upon a ball of writhing, poisonous snakes. If you tell me you do not want to play with them, I will be out of the jungle and on the next flight to Detroit before you’ve had time to inhale for your next word.
I respect your wishes. And my life.
There are, however, people who will not leave well enough alone. You say, no, you do not want to play, learn, get frostbite, die from an insect bite or try to cajole an angry bull into playing nice, and the other person jovially slaps you on the back into the middle of next June and demands you DO want to play or YES you want to learn.
Maybe I am just cranky, but I really feel like I know my interests and limitations.
I know I prefer reading to playing dominoes. I know trying to learn to play some obscure Asian game will only frustrate me and irritate my earnest instructor. Please leave well enough alone.
For years, I told one of these insistent people that I was not a player of cards. I had no desire whatsoever in sitting at a card table on an uncomfortable chair for six hours while three other people chatted about their dogs, lawn fertilizer or cleaning service. However, he finally wore me down, caught me in a weak moment and informed me he was going to teach me to play Bridge.
“Please don’t,” I begged, “This can only end badly for one of us.”
“Nonsense," they replied. "Sit down across from me. I will deal the cards. Pretend there is a person on either side of you."
“What are they wearing?”
“What?”
“What are they wearing?”
“I don’t know — it doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me. I might not be dressed properly. Is it afternoon or evening?”
This earned me a glare.
“Stop it," my would-be instructor said. "I know what you are up to. You will learn how to play Bridge. I cannot believe you don’t know how.”
He dealt the cards. He explained the bidding process. This information had the sticking power of a feather in a strong wind. I studied my hand.
“All right," he said. "Now bid.”
“Five spades,” I said with a big smile.
I got that “look.”
“You can’t bid five spades," he insisted. "Look at your hand again. Think! What did I tell you about bidding? Bid again.”
I looked at my cards carefully.
“Six spades?”
The look was more severe this time.
“No," he said. "Look at your cards more carefully. Now bid.”
“Okayyyy," I replied. "I bid….78 spades and ‘I’m leavin’ on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again…’” I warbled and pranced around the table.
“Cut it out. This isn’t funny.”
Really? I thought it was pretty funny. I didn’t know how to play Bridge, and I didn’t care if I ever learned. I didn’t think I would be executed in front of a group of my peers if I didn’t know how to play Bridge. Now, if I couldn’t speed-shop through the mall, I would deserve execution.
“What is the matter with you?" he asked. "I thought I explained how to bid. You have to look at your hand."
I had looked at what I had been dealt… several times.
“We are going to do this again," he said. "What should you bid? Look at your hand and think before you bid.”
I sat there tapping my foot. I took a drink of iced tea. I petted the cat. I counted the tiles on the backsplash behind the stove.
I took a deep breath.
“I bid six spades, and I defy you to do any better.”
“Give me those cards,” he sniped and reached for my hand.
I fanned out my cards and showed them to him.
In my hand were the Ace, King, Queen, Jack, Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven and Six of Spades and the Ace, King, Queen and Jack of Hearts.
I still don’t know how to play Bridge.
Susan Keezer lives in Adrian. Send your good news to her at Lenaweesmiles@gmail.com.
This article originally appeared on The Monroe News: No, and you can't make me
