Take Another Little Piece (of my heart now, baby)

Puzzles. Those that are a metaphor for life's little mysteries and those that are legit tiny pieces of colored cardboard. Some people love them, some hate them. I'm a happy mix of both.

Growing up, my mom and sister were both exceptionally good at puzzles. I often wonder at what point my mom figured out that she could dump out a box and enjoy hours of peace and quiet. My grandma had clearly figured out the tactic before her, because I remember putting together ones stowed away in a coffee can that had clearly seen better days. Regardless, we had on our game shelf a multitude of different landscapes, for us to fit together faraway places from the comfort of our own home. We even had a puzzle board, so the work in progress could be transported around for convenience of space and lighting.

While my family was systematic and vicious when it came to quick and efficient assembly, I floundered. My budding ADD and rabid imagination couldn't be confined to such black and white games. I would take a piece and try to fit it against a dozen others that were of completely different color and dissimilar shape. Sometimes, they'd let me struggle along, other times a piece would get snatched from my hand and promptly placed in its appropriate spot while I stared on. Why couldn't a blue and a red fit together? It was possible. Right? .... I just couldn't compete and flourish in that setting.

To fix this, I got a puzzle board of my own. During college, we'd flatten out a futon, pour ample libations, and "picnic" away an afternoon with cheese and bread over-top a puzzle of Rome. We were fancy. So fancy. That fanciness continued into adulthood as I'd build out landscapes of Hogwarts while binge watching Mad Men. Not saying I became an expert, but I finally started to not be awful. I figured out my own strategy and started focusing on the big picture instead of just smashing together mismatched images, wondering why they wouldn't connect.

In the past few years, the beau has now joined in on the creation process. And it has lead to one very clear conclusion: we do not have similar tactics at all, and I do not puzzle well with others.

This will only end in tears... Of joy. From me. As I place the last piece, victoriously.
(that I've hidden in my pocket so the glory would be all mine!)

I attack with a rigid system:

• Pick out and assemble edges. 
• While digging for edges, compartmentalize various image themes (green grass = green pile in one place; red flower patch = boom, you get a pile, too!) to make it easier after edges are done. 
• Attack each pile in turn. Use the box if you must, but you should be able to figure it out based on the shapes and shading on the pieces in front of you.
• Place back into overall frame as large sections are ready, consulting reference picture as needed.
• In the final stages, pieces are placed in piles based on shape and systematically tested in turn until each has found a home.
• When finished, make sure every bit is broken apart and back in container. Shake for good measure. Make sure it's good and ready for future assembly challenge.

The beau?*

• He says the edges are "the easy part" so you can just worry about them whenever. 
• Pick out some random spot on the picture on the box. Hold said box cover in front of face while searching for individual piece to match specific thing you're looking at. 
• Have some bits put together, place them in general vicinity on table where they will be in overall image, despite not having edges set up to create a frame.
• When finished, glue together. Because you worked hard and why would you ever want to build it again? (Note: he also doesn't rewatch movies or reread books - I know. I judge, too.)

When building together, I get frustrated. I sneakily work on the puzzle when he's in the shower or cooking dinner just so I can organize his piles. I snatch bits of his sections, so I can "help." AND I shriek bloody murder the second a suggestion of glue even occurs. Basically, I'm the worst.

Having such different approaches for how we put together silly little chunks of cardboard, of course, cracks open the greater anxieties... do our own pieces fit together? Are our strategies a perfect compliment, in total conflict, or a beautiful mess of creation? How we approach this game, is it a reflection of how we approach life? Am I just not good at playing well with others?

This is when I start to claw away from my winter hibernation and indoor activities like puzzle making. Because this is the point where my mind starts to run rampant and the irrationality hits a peak. Suddenly a simple box of colored bits becomes an overwrought metaphor for how I must be failing at my relationship. Ten minutes into starting a new design, I've spiraled. Sobbing into the cardboard dust, blaring James Morrison songs,** and assuming I'll live out my days as a crazy spinster - the kind who puts together edges first to create a barrier and keep out those she loves... The deterioration would be funny if it weren't so alarming. The only solution is to abandon the board and run for the open doors into the spring. Too many months cooped up. Puzzling (and my neuroses) can wait until next winter to come out and play again!

The man is a monster, and a cheat!

* Please note: this is based on observations made while puzzling together. I have never witnessed him puzzling on his own, so perhaps his strategy is entirely different when I'm not also there. Or not. The world may never know. ALSO, this is only slightly exaggerated, due to my frustration over the inefficiency. Because I can't handle ineffective processes these days. Sending thanks to the man out there, for bringing me to this point! My frustrations are obviously just spillover from the workplace. 
** Thank you, semester abroad, for giving me that most brilliant of breakup songs. How many times has my tear-streaked faced belted out your ridiculous lyrics into a pint of ice cream while a roommate watched on in horror? Oh, bless those broken hearts of youth! For they make the most ridiculous scenes in hindsight.