Jenga Ninja

Another dinner out with Cindy proves informative and conversationally stimulating. We had been discussing how in the past she would know a roommate was a match for her and it centered on the scientific calculations of spacial adherence. Cindy was compatible only with a person that allowed her the freedom to move about the planet unencumbered by expectations, and, that said person, must agree to abide by the division of space never once to encroach upon hers without permission. This prompted her to suggest there should be a specific word for the kind of anger that is elicited by space invaders so we kicked around a few generic ideas before landing on space-gry. As Cindy spoke of her conditions, I imagined those negotiations with potential roommates lasting months because, like Moses, her commandments were carved in stone and just finding a mountain in Florida for her do any needed rewrites would be problematic. As her first roommate this took me back. 

Inclinations of her condition were unearthed in my formative years when we shared a room; I’m using the term “shared” loosely because, to share, would imply equal agreement on the utilization of space availability. This was not my experience as the youngest. Our room looked like a drunken bamboo quartered off a spec of land east of the north window on a single tile and stuck a flag in the ground with my name on it. Like a Jenga Ninja; I was expected to stack and pack my belongings within that tiny space while hers sprawled out leisurely across the vastness of the rest of the room daring to throw snarky looks at me. So complicated was her construction of this your zone vs my zone division that my dad had to install a pulley system to the ceiling so that not even a foot of mine would touch the sacred ground of her real-estate. Anything belonging to me that dare cast a shadow onto the Queen’s abode would be tossed into the River Styx never to return from purgatory. Space-gry indeed, just ask my Jane West doll whose left boot spur eked unintended over the imaginary perimeter. She was snagged, bagged and tagged and on her way to level one as the rest of the carefully stacked items looked on in terror and admiration. Cindy’s strategic excavation of Jane, whose position was middle left center on the tower, was most impressive.  Without even a wobble Jane was gone. My only solace to her greedy takeover of “our” room was to scale my tiny tile tower and perch myself atop dreaming of the day when I were free from my tile cell.

 The things that jar the memory into the shuttle back in time are often the most unexpected; a simple conversation at the Chicken Pantry and my childhood bubbles to the surface.  Although I can look back on this time now understanding that firstborns have all the power in childhood, and, can appreciate the lesson of hierarchy; I’m sure this first brush with privileged society lodged in my psyche and made me unconsciously strive for better conditions in life; it makes the study of birth placement and personality a very interesting topic. My roommate now has no such requirements of me and I enjoy my spoil of our room. Rest assured, however, I shan’t retire my Jenga Ninja outfit hastily. In secret I still feel the need to practice the unique skill sets I learned from childhood. God just might have the last laugh by sticking Cindy and I in the same room at an Assisted Living Facility and I insist on being prepared this time.