Crosswords: The Agony and the Ecstasy

There is a tangled knot under my right scapula. As I sit here typing, the muscle twists as though it is a dish rag being wrung out tightly. Pain drips down my vertebrae. I stretch, and my back cracks so loud that I startle. But there is no relief.

I’ve been doing, perhaps, too many crossword puzzles.

I haven’t spent much time doing puzzles before. But I’ve heard enough humble bragging from solvers of the Sunday New York Times Crossword to learn that solving hard puzzles can raise a person’s status. My self esteem is low. My contact with humans is nonexistent. I need puzzles.

From Amazon, I bought a book of Fifty Monday New York Time Crossword puzzles. The cover includes a cheerful picture of an apple pie, ice cream tantalizingly melting à la mode into it. The puzzles were supposed to be as easy as pie. The cover makes me hungry. The pages lead to sadness.

It starts optimistically. I set myself up for success. I make coffee, caffeine being the best legal neurostimulant. I make peanut butter toast, because coffee is lonely by itself. I clear the dining room table of its books and dirty forks. It is the cleanest it has been in weeks.

I sit down. I giddily scan the list of clues, crossing off the easy pickings. Jeans material is… denim! A Coke rival is… Pepsi! I noisily slash out each solved clue, delighting in the sharpness of my mechanical pencil. I wish I were doing this in public. I imagine other Starbucks patrons being impressed with my speed. I concentrate so hard my head beads with sweat. Before I know it, I’m at the bottom of the list.

At this point, I have finished my toast. I decide to reward myself with another slice. As I pop it in the toaster, I think about what to put on it. Repeating peanut butter would be a bore. I open the refrigerator. The cool air soothes on my overtaxed brow. I survey my options: the jam is almost out. I don’t feel like struggling with the stubborn rigidity of refrigerated butter: more than likely, I’d break the toast trying to spread it. My eyes fall upon a Tupperware: No Bake Cookies. They were a disaster. Maybe I didn’t heat them long enough over the stove. I pop the lid. They are a gloppy mess, but they smell great. I scape a cookie onto my toast. It is peanut butter, butter, sugar, cocoa powder and oats. These are normal things one might eat on toast, right?

Back at the table, I take a bite. It feels naughty. It tastes delicious. I turn back to my puzzle. I realize I have celebrated prematurely. I have only filled in twelve out of more than a hundred clues. I look back at the list. Some are easier now that that a couple letters are filled in. With “L” and “E” completed, I can determine that “a feudal lord” is “liege.” Thank you, Game of Thrones. But I haven’t the faintest idea of how to spell the word. I’ve relied on spell check for too long. I fill in my best approximation, but it doesn’t seem right. Was the author of this puzzle British?

I roll my shoulders. The snap-crackle-pop travels from my puzzle arm up to my neck. I have been leaning over the table too hard in my concentration. I straighten up.

I move on to the next clue. It is the author of a title I’ve never heard of. Skip. Next. “Ski resort next to Snowbird.” I don’t ski. Is it Aspen? No? Skip. I continue on, my pride dwindling. I reach the bottom of the list. Where did all my toast go?

Back in the kitchen, I decide I need a treat to console myself. But not toast. I don’t deserve toast. I open the fridge. I gaze at the carrots, glowing with the promise of health. I turn to the gloppy cookies. If they aren’t fully cooked, they will go bad, right? Waste not, want not. I pull out the container. I should put one or two on a plate and close the door. But I don’t feel like washing another dish. Surely, I can show restraint. I am a woman grown. I grab a spoon and go back to the table.

Twelve clues remain. I stare at them. I go through the alphabet, eliminating possible letters until I have eliminated z, or zed. I have determined that this author must not only be British, but also a sadist. My forehead rumples so hard I it hurts.

I give in. I look at the answers at the back of the book, glimpsing in the process a back cover that taunts, “Easy, Fun, Puzzles!” I learn the ski resort is called “Alta.” Never heard of it. I resent the author for catering to the fancy crowd. I look back at the puzzle, hoping the newly filled in squares will offer some clarity as to what “Groups planning coups” might mean. Nope. I look at the answer key. Cabals. That’s not a word. Cheat, ponder, repeat. The Tupperware is empty. I don’t know how this has happened. I am glad I am alone, glad nobody can see me like this, cheating, correcting my spelling errors, rubbing fallen chocolate off the book, then licking my finger.

I thought doing puzzles would be a fun way to pass the time during the quarantine. I thought I would learn something. I thought I would accomplish things. That I would be somebody.

Instead, I am a burping, sheepish mess, and my back hurts.

But my eyes are drawn to the next page. It is clean and shiny with promise. I see a clue I can tackle easily. I remember the giddy rush of at the beginning of the puzzle.

I wonder, maybe this time, I will be better. Maybe I will fill in one clue after another without pause. Soon I will be moving on to Sunday puzzles, I just know it.

But first, I’ll make some more coffee.