It started off in a small way -- just one hit a day. Something for the long ride home. For several weeks that was enough to keep me going. But then I heard that there was another source -- one that would allow me to get a fix whenever I wanted. Less embarrassing, too, than having to make sure I had access to a fix everyday.
I checked around my neighborhood and discovered where I could stock up. I now had something small enough, portable enough, for me to carry around in my bag, something to get me though the dreary daily commute to Neihu and back home.
Suddenly, just once a day wasn't enough. I found myself doing more, three or four a day, and obsessing about when I could get my next fix. And agonizing over the bad ones.
I knew I was in trouble when finishing my fix was more important than almost anything else.
I was forced to admit to myself -- and my friends -- that I was an addict. But then an interesting thing occurred. When I was willing to confess my own weakness it was amazing how many people came out of the woodwork to admit that they too were hooked.
Sudoku. Just a few months ago I had never heard of it. Now I can't seem to get through the day without it.
And I'm not the only one.
Who would have ever thought that the girl to whom math was the worst four-letter word in the world would turn into a woman who thinks number puzzles is fun. Certainly not Mrs. Evans, my math teacher in seventh and eight grades, who made my life such a misery (and vice versa, I'm sure).
Certainly not some friends I met up with in Singapore recently who made the mistake of telling me that they had thrown away the special sudoku puzzle magazine and CD-Rom that had been included with the Independent newspaper that they had picked up at the London airport. Our friendship will survive -- just -- but they now know better than to come between a girl and her sudoku.
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