Next step: A Game Show?

I went to a pot-luck dinner last night and had a wonderful time. The hosts were gracious; the guests were interesting; the food was fabulous. I was totally relaxed and mellow, sitting in a big, comfortable chair with my feet tucked under me, when the worst possible thing happened. The hostess said, "OK, everyone. Now, we're going to play a game."

Would it seem rude if I got up and left with no explanation? Of course it would. (I did it once and don't think the hosts have forgiven me yet. If you're reading this, guys, I am sorry!) Could I go to the bathroom and never come out? Could I simply refuse to play? I was frozen.

What's the big deal? Well, it is my irrational, mysterious aversion to games. Any games. I won't play. Don't ask me. I have been known to become ill and have to bolt from the room. Since there is no explanation, I chalk this up to past-life trauma; but that is hardly something I could say to people I barely knew.

So, I didn't do anything. I just sat there while the hostess explained that everyone loves this game, and they have changed all the rules so it's stress free. All we had to do as pick two cards (any two we like from multiple stacks) and answer the question on each card. We could change the questions, make up a story, do anything we wanted.

The first person answered his question, and his story was delightful. The second, third, and fourth people answered their questions. We were all enchanted. Then it was my turn. "I want your question," I said to the person before me. "Sure. Here," she said and gave me her card. I spun a yarn about growing up on the train because my father was a railroad man. Everyone loved my story. I loved my story.

Eventually the game ended, and we said our goodbyes. As I drove home I realized what I had done. Granted, it wasn't poker or Monopoly or anything really hard. But it was a beginning—a small crack in my aversion's seemingly indestructible armor.

We must relish our victories, no matter how small.