I have spent a large portion of my adult life attempting to prove that I am strong, tough and efficient. To myself? Absolutely. And to others and the outside world? Admittedly, there is a needy, vain element of that. “Pick me,” some unloved inner child begs.
This has led me, over recent years, to run marathons, striving to hit Boston qualifier times, and complete law school and pass the bar exam. I’ve battled to stay at the same number on the scale I was before childbirth. (If Fred Rogers was able to maintain the same weight his entire adult life, I have frequently remarked, I can, too.)
Every day, I count miles and calories, work hours, and my younger daughter’s sugar, fruit and vegetable consumption. Once age 40 hit, I added a multistep skincare routine, and I have been recently tracking my sleep score and weekly alcohol units.
Still, I had, until recently, steadfastly refused to participate in mahjong’s trendy resurgence among the Chicago and suburban mom set.
Getting invited to mahjong parties feels a bit like the adult version of the training bra meetings in “Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.” (For those of us who grew up reading Judy Blume.) Who’s going? Who’s organizing? Am I part of a popular crowd?
“If I have any extra time, I want to spend it on a run, maybe have a cocktail,” I remarked to my neighbor and running pal on a recent morning during our regular 5:50 a.m. trek through Lincoln Park. Our route, down a swath of the lakefront path, always ends at an overpriced coffee shop where I’ve become fearful the mornings baristas think of us as Karens.
We’re different in many ways, my neighbor and I, but align closely regarding how to spend our free time, which we both purport to have very little of.
But enter a school fundraiser thrown by a group of first-grade mothers at my 7-year-old’s school. Mahjong De Mayo — an event that could not be more quintessentially “Lincoln Park Mom” — was to be held at Summer House, the spot that keeps bottles of rosé wine within easy reach around the restaurant in pastel Yeti coolers.
A classroom mom asked if I was going. “These are nice people! You should be more social!” my inner voice nagged. I found myself purchasing a ticket, while simultaneously contemplating my outs.
“You’ll be back from Springfield late Tuesday, right?” I asked my husband, who lobbies at the Capitol during the spring session. “No, I should be back by early evening,” he told me, eliminating any thought I had of claiming to be landlocked with the kids. “I don’t really like to go out,” I thought to myself, partly true. But after a spring juggling one daughter’s maniacal Irish dancing schedule during St. Patrick’s Day season, and another’s lacrosse season and recent pre- and post-prom gauntlet of events, even that excuse rang a little hollow. I needed a reminder that I was not just a source of rides and snacks and permission.
As the event approached, I thought about just why I have become so averse to learning to play mahjong, in particular.
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This wasn’t about the company, the timing or location of the event or even the cost of admission.
It was what mahjong suggests about me.
Playing the game admits I have time. It admits I’m getting old. It admits I’d be a part of a sort of “ladies who lunch” set.
There’s also something about it that feels decisively unfeminist, conjuring up Betty Friedan using bridge games to symbolize being trapped in a shallow, stifled life in “The Feminine Mystique.”
That Tuesday night, I sat at a table with a lawyer, a doctor and a junior kindergarten teacher, a glass of wine balancing on my lap as I learned some of the rules and lingo. Bam. Dot. Crack.
“You won’t be able to pay attention to anything but the game at hand,” our instructor Jen said.
And perhaps, therein, lies the draw. For an hour and a half, I did think — but not of work, parenting or the endless to-do list. I moved my tiles from east to west, questioned and strategized.
But could that energy and engagement be channeled into something more productive?
Something to think about over that run or cocktail. Though I’m glad I tried one game, for now, I fold.
Kerry Lester Kasper is a Chicago-based writer.
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