Mahjong: It’s All Greek To Me
While most of the world has found a way to entertain themselves during the corona lockdown, I’ve managed to find a way to torture myself. Under duress brought on by these strange times, and despite my contempt for all board and card games, I have been convinced by some extremely persuasive friends, to learn to play Mahjong. To be fair, I did want to learn something new and, possibly even useful, during this time, so there really is no one to blame but myself and, obviously, a pandemic.
To best explain the pickle in which I now find myself, consider this familiar scenario:
The big event you can’t wait to attend is a few days away. To prepare, you painstakingly and, often painfully, make sure you look your best by getting your hair done, possibly even in an updo, waxing all unwanted body hair, choosing the perfect mani/pedi polish, buying the fashion forward, figure flattering dress and Spanx to match. Then, selecting some sexy “ish” heels that make the outfit, you promise yourself that even though your toes are curled inward and your ankles and knees are forced into awkward angles resulting in an either cartoonish or somewhat sexy gait, they are perfect. Finally, the evening arrives and you are perfection. With a final satisfied glance into the mirror before heading out, you are giddy with excitement. After such an amazing evening, and thrilled with yourself, as you head up to undress and wash your face, the pictures start to come in from your Instagramming friends. With abject horror, you stare at the images, turn to your husband and say, “How did you let me go out looking like this?” And then you begin to ask yourself, “What was I thinking? Why does my hair look like a helmet? Is that razor burn from the wax on my face? Why does that polish look downright garish next to the dress, which is definitely not nearly as figure flattering as originally thought?” The shoes, perfect as they were, were abandoned under the table after the first hour due to swelling and blistering. Horrified, you look up from the carnage at your husband and scream, “Why didn’t you say anything?” And, he responds as they all do, “I thought you looked fine.” Fine? Shit.
Five minutes into my first mahjong lesson is like the first minute I looked at those pictures. I thought I was reasonably intelligent and figured this would be a fun way to spend time with friends during this time learning something new, but now I’ve got helmut head, my Spanx is cutting off my circulation, and my shoes are under the table. Once again, the train has already left the station.
I think I said, “Wait, what?” 100 times during lesson one. “So, the white dragon is the soap? Why can’t it just be a white dragon like the red or green ones? Why does it look like a soap? It can also be a zero? Wait, what? Is the tile with the bird looking thing on it a one bam or a one dot? How many dragon colors are there again? So, you can’t pick up a discard for a pair? Or a joker? And jokers only exist in American mahjong? You mean there are more rules for other variations of this game? Wait, what? The three suits are dots, bams and cracks but then there are dragons, winds, and flowers, but some of the dragons go with some of the suits too? Wait, what?”
A migraine begins to form just attempting to start this game. To play cards, you shuffle the deck and deal. Simple. In mahjong, we build walls. Why? No clue. But you need a whole rig-a-ma-roll to do it, plus special equipment. Your tiles are placed on racks, which also have a lever to help you to move out the wall. Then there’s dice rolling to decide who gets to be East, then wall breaking, which I also still don’t understand, and finally, you get your 13 tiles. Now the real tension kicks in, because you must create a hand from your tiles that match anxiety-producing cards that may as well be written in Greek. And then we do the charleston! Players swap tiles left, across, right, then right, across, left or who the hell cares? I’m so confused and have no idea what I’m swapping, or who I’m swapping with, that by the time we’ve charlestoned, my original hand is unrecognizable and I’m already mentally exhausted. What’s a white dragon again? Wait, what?
FINALLY, we begin play. Since the lockdown, we’re playing online, but, additionally, to be able to socialize and see each other, we use the Houseparty app, causing even more confusion, as the computer calls out our discards: “5 crack. 2 dot. Green. East. 8 bam.” Overhearing this exchange, my husband looks at me and mimes, “WTH are you doing?” Rolling my eyes, I mime back “Mahjong.” Turning back to the game, “Wait,” I say to my friends, “Is the soap thingy the white dragon?” My husband, looking seriously confused, shakes his head and leaves the room. Lucky him. Meanwhile, our most patient teacher, reminds me for the 10,000th time, that yes, indeed, the soap is the white dragon. Mother of God, I think, I’ll never get it. As I watch the tiles I need get discarded by my, so-called, friends, I am reminded constantly of my stupidity by the computer graphic that displays the number of points we’ve all earned from getting “MAHJONG.” I have 60. My compadres have a range from about 250-6000. Humiliating.
“Mahjong!” cries Jill. Thank God, I think. My hand is a bust as usual which should have become apparent when Jill started discarding jokers. Obnoxious. “Shall we play another?” she says cheerily. “Wait, what?”