The odds of me playing a good game aren’t good. No, when opponents take my money, send me back to Start or make me draw more cards, I feel more inclined to toss the dice at their head than on the table.
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When someone else rolls that double six, gets the final card in their full house or somehow achieves whatever the aim of the game is, I don’t feel all warm and fuzzy. No amount of blowing and wishing is going to make me roll a double six. I don’t have the interest to remember who already played an ace but I’m too competitive to like losing. Gaming evangelists assert that this form of leisure activity helps families bond while teaching good sportsmanship.
They’re about getting hugged so tight I couldn’t breathe, eating her delectable baked goods and convincing her to talk without her teeth. Those childhood games were fun, I suspect, because she let me win.Īlthough I adored all the love and attention she showered on me, my warm recollections of Grandma aren’t about playing Rack-O, bingo and Phase 10. The only exception is my memory of playing with my game-smitten Grandma. Unfortunately, I don’t reminisce about these occasions with the fondness expressed by true game lovers. More times than I’d care to count, I’ve gamely moved tokens, tossed dice, rearranged tiles and laid out cards with friends and relatives. In recent years I’ve embraced the fact that I don’t enjoy games and now decline most invitations to play. Like read a book, piece a puzzle, take a hike, or stare into space. Whether I’m asked to play poker, pinochle, Bingo, Sorry, Uno, dominoes, Go Fish or any other game, I can think of a thousand things I’d rather do.