Sudoku

I love to play Sudoku. If you walk through my house, you will find foxed puzzle books in the bathroom, in the family room, and beside the bed. I’m not particularly fast, but I’m confident. I use ink.

I like the order—the certain knowledge there is exactly one correct number for each spot and I can find it. My brain revels in the pattern of the game. Nine must go here because no other number can. Nothing else in my life is like that. There are no other places where one and only one correct answer exists. Or there may be, but I have no confidence in the answer and no way of checking if I’m wrong before committing to the choice in ink.

Sometimes I find it easy to become paralyzed by options. There are sixteen brands of wheat bread in the grocery store aisle but for some reason the store isn’t carrying the type I always get. There are hundreds of loops to chat on; multiple ways a plot can turn; five colors of paint I wouldn’t mind for the bathroom. Some days, I stand frozen.

“It’s just a decision,” my husband says. “Just pick one.”

But do I really want the bathroom that shade of celery?

A multitude of acceptable options should be freeing, but strangely isn’t.

That’s why I like Sudoku.