Of Small Stuff and Sweat

This Caribbean vacation was turning out to be a bad idea. My friends back home warned me not to go. "Mitch," they said, "you don't like lying on the beach. You sunburn in 10 minutes flat. You're in to the dermatologist every two months to get something cut off. You don't sail, you don't surf. You don't speak Spanish."

Of course all that well intended advice only made me more determined to go. There was the price, a bargain for a 3-star resort. I understood there had to be a lot wrong with the place, or there were better places, but I find it hard to resist the lure of cheap, don't you?

Well maybe you don't, and that's a big part of my point, you see, and my bigger point is--and I always said this years before that guy used it as a trendy book title--"Don't sweat the small stuff."

Okay, you answer, but who gets to say what's big and what's small? A pebble in your shoe could be small to you, but my pebble could be big to me. You might sleep soundly on any mattress; I might be the male version of the princess who slept on the pea.

What? You haven't read that fairy tale? Don't worry about it, because, as I say, "Don't sweat the small stuff."

But I digress. I usually do. There's a word for conversationalists like me, but I've forgotten it. I think it's mildly critical.

Well let me tell you about my first day in paradise. Day 1. A doozy. Nothing to do. I covered myself in Sunscreen Factor 60, put on a long sleeved shirt and a hat with a wide brim, polarized sun glasses, and ventured out into the Caribbean. What did I do with my wallet and room key? I put them under my hat of course. I heard a woman whisper "Magilla Gorilla" as I walked by. She was a fine one to talk. Yes I buy everything at the big and tall shop, but her bathing suit was last year's Pantone color of the year. So if we're keeping score (I always do), skin cancer big stuff, keeping your wallet secure big stuff, fashionable colors big stuff, looking ridiculous in or on the way to the water, small stuff, real small.

How'd I do in the water? Cut my toe on a piece of coral. First visit to the medic. I tried wind surfing next. How do those guys stay up on those boards? I persisted, but after I fell off for the twelfth time I decided to switch to something else.

I was in time for the afternoon scuba diving lesson. Hey I grew up watching Sea Hunt. Mike Nelson made it look pretty easy. So Magilla Gorilla went scuba diving. In the pool I learned to look at the oxygen gauge. That sounded important. I didn't think my mask was the greatest fit, but it was the best they had. So far procedures learned. Okay, out to the motor boat. I'm big and I'm buoyant but the staff had a solution. They strapped sixty pounds of weights around my waste and down I went.

Wow--I had faced a big fear and conquered it, or so I thought. A couple of minutes later and I was on the bottom looking up thirty or so feet at the surface, checking my oxygen every five seconds. What a brave guy! Then, a niggling problem. My mask didn't fit. Water was leaking in. Instant panic. Then the problem of getting back up with the extra weight. Water water everywhere, getting into my mouth. God I can't die here! Somehow I kicked my way to the surface. Sensing my panic, the boat motored right over. Then another logicstical problem--how to get my hulking self back up in the boat. The extra weight made it even harder. Mike Nelson had a ladder. Where was the ladder? Three of the staff gave me a push and I made it over the side.

I hid in my room until dinner, which was a barbecue on the beach. Every kind of sea food imaginable, especially conch. Lots of conch. Conch that had been out in the sun, so yes, food poisoning. And another trip to the medic. Day 1.

I made a new strategy for Day 2. I took the free Spanish lesson. Not very enlightening. I learned how to say my name and order a beer. Hmmn. I hated to admit it, but my friends were right. This was turning out to be the wrong vacation for me.

But sometimes Fate, or Serendipity, or whatever you choose to call it, takes a hand. A guy with a tennis racket asked if I could play mixed doubles with his group. Apparently his friend had sprained his ankle after getting food poisoning. I said of course. Someone found me a racket. My partner's name was Lisa. She was about 5'5". I'm 6'4". She was fleet of foot. I have a big wing span. We agreed I would concentrate on the net.

The first ball came back at me. I got it, easily, and shunted it off to the side, at an unreturnable angle. Smile of admiration from Lisa. The next ball was higher. Not high enough. Easy for me to handle. The third time, my counterpart on the other side made sure to get it over my head, but of course it went long. That's the idea. The ones I didn't get Lisa easily ran down. Of course I was glad to eat dinner with them, going Dutch. When I got to the restaurant, seaside theme, our adversaries had made other plans, so it was just me and my new tennis partner.

We got a few stares as we were seated. She was petite and I look like Lurch. You don't know the Adams Family? Don't worry. That's small stuff--don't sweat it. Lisa was a brunette. All the smart ones are brunettes. Have you noticed that? She smiled slyly as she twirled her fork reflectively. "So what's your game, Mitch? I think you've got a good one."

It was my turn to smile, my scuba diving misadventure now a distant memory. "I like a woman with double connotations," I replied, a bit gamely, on purpose. I continued, "You're European, I'm guessing, because your fork is in your left hand, and Catholic, since you're wearing a cross, a discreet and elegant one, I might add."

She nodded. "That's right. And you?"

"New age, Connecticut Yankee," I replied. Another nod.

She pored over the menu. I found what I wanted right away. Mussels for an appetizer, a shrimp Caesar salad, Duchess potatoes, and the grilled octopus. What was taking her so long? It wasn't that big a menu. Then it hit me. Vegetarians, real vegetarians, compose a meal differently. They can't just take a bunch of vegetable dishes and throw them together. They have to calculate, figure it out. "There's an Indian restaurant just down the road," I offered. "If you're a vegetarian, I think you'll do better there."

Lisa was surprised. "How did you know?" I explained.

We exited the restaurant. More stares. I offered her my elbow and she took it. She's a bit old-fashioned in the important ways, I thought. The next place was Indo-Caribbean or Caribbo-Indian, I don't know which. I'm not usually keen on Indian, but the fish was decent, and the lime pickles and chutney were worth it. We both ordered mango lassis, so I knew she was an ovo-lacto vegetarian.

I asked her what she worked at. She said the Swedish liberal party. Hmmn. That would be the party that set the top tax rate at 120%. I said "I'm guessing you work in strategy."

She asked me how I knew that, and I said it was the way she played tennis. She laughed at that. She had a pleasant laugh. She asked me about my work and my political convictions.

I said, "I work in VC, and I've never been convicted for anything political."

... another lovely laugh. "I'm guessing, Mitch, since you work in Venture Capital, you're a conservative."

"You'd be wrong," I said, and she looked surprised. "I'm a libertarian." I found myself trying to be clever just to hear that laugh. And those nut brown eyes were the opposite of inscrutable.

"Meyers Briggs," she continued with the game, "everyone's done Meyers Briggs. What are you, and what am I? E or I? Introvert or extravert?"

"You're pretty close to the center, I think," I ventured. "Maybe I1 or I2?"

She nodded. "I2."

"And you already know I'm an extravert," I suggested, not wishing to insult her by implying that she wouldn't know.

"E6?" she asked.

"7," I replied. "And you're thinking," I said. "Thinking, thinking, thinking. Strategy. Thinking 10?"

She nodded. "But you're intuitive. An 8?"

I watched her eat so I didn't stare at her eyes. I'd never watched a European eat Indian before. It was very attractive. Or was it just her? Too bad I am an extraverted, libertarian venture capitalist built like a gorilla, I thought. She's a very attractive lady, but I'm not going to make a good impression.

She pulled two pieces of paper from a pad in her purse and produced two pencils. She smiled. "Write down what you think are the world's two biggest problems and I'll do the same. Don't lie or I'll know." Of course she would know. No flies on her.

We wrote our answers, folded them in half, and passed them to each other. "Okay," she said. "What do you think I wrote?"

"Climate change and overpopulation," I said.

"Impressive," she allowed. I looked at her paper and saw I was right. "I think," she mused, "you must have put high taxes..." I nodded, "and, and... I don't know, demographics," she guessed.

"Right both times," I grinned. "My turn to be impressed. Lisa, I'm guessing you play bridge."

"Duplicate, competitive," she said.

"Of course," I remarked. "If you're up for it, let's ask the concierge where the best bridge club is and play together."

"I'm in," she enthused. "Let's take our bubble tea to go, and walk back." Again she took my arm. I could see she understood the important things.

Next afternoon...

We met in the lobby and took a taxi to the Colonial bridge club, a throwback to British institutions. She wore a strapless magenta dress with a side slit and a matching jacket. "Lisa," I said.

She pretended not to notice. "Now let's get the essentials straight," she said. I looked at her. "If I bid two clubs, do you step or do diamonds waiting?"

"Step," I answered.

"Good," she said, the only sensible way.

"Do you do minor transfers?"

"Rarely, and only with 6 cards."

"Me too," she said.

"Agreed. Well that's settled," she said.

The room was elegant, and well set up. The boards and cards were new, and there were machines to register the scores, so that the results would be available immediately at the end of the afternoon. There was a prize--dinner for two. Her brown eyes danced. I could see that she wanted to win. Competitive, strategic, bridge-playing liberal with great fashion sense, I thought.

The first round went well. It was an easy 3 no trump contract on the first board and Lisa made an overtrick. On the second board she bullied our opponents into bidding too high, doubled them, and cashed in. For the third hand she had a weak two bid. I passed, and again she made an overtrick.

As we moved to the next table she said, as quietly and emphatically as possible, "You're a very good player Mitch, but I wish you'd concentrate more on your cards and stop staring at my dress."

"My dear Lisa," I rejoined, "every man in this room is staring at your dress, and none of us can concentrate on the cards...."

I thought I was in trouble on the fifth hand, but then I thought about one of my opponents' discards, found a finesse, and saved the contract. A flash of admiration from my partner...

All hands were going well when we reached the last hand of the final round. The room clearly was highly competitive and the players skilled. Lisa bid one no trump. The opponent to her left bid two hearts. Damn! I thought. I needed to bid two hearts to transfer to spades. I have good spades, nothing else, but there's a contract there. I couldn't bid spades, that would mean a minor transfer to clubs or diamonds and I didn't have those. I had to convey spades, and we agreed on transfers. Hearts was my bid. She stole my bid. Ah, there was the "stolen-bid" double. But did Lisa bid the stolen bid double? I looked into her eyes. Lots of secrets and mysteries there, but nothing about stolen-bid doubles. I drew a breath. I reached into my bidding box and took out the red card. "Double."

Now the opponent on my left was interested. She turned to Lisa, and said, "My I ask the meaning of your partner's bid?"

Duplicate bridge is a game of subtle, restricted, stark and revealing communication. She said, "I'm not sure, because it is the first time we've played together, but I think it is a stolen bid double. I think he wanted to bid two hearts for the transfer to spades, but your partner made that bid, so he doubled. But I'm not at all sure."

"Really?" the opponent asked, incredulous.

"Yes, really," Lisa answered, just shy of being miffed.

"No, you misunderstand," the opponent explained. "What you say makes sense, but I had the impression that you know each other very well, as players and, well, forgive me if my remarks are out of place, but you make a handsome couple." The lady looked pointedly at my tie. I realized suddenly that it was magenta.

Smiles all around. The opponent pulled out the Pass card. Lisa bid two spades. I bid four. I spread my hand out, and with some Macchiavellian play she made the contract, the last hand of the day. Our opponents entered the score. Three minutes later the results came. We had won dinner for two at the club. Handshakes all around.

Lisa said, "Come to my room. We have time before dinner. She took my hand.

Thrilled, I wondered aloud, "How can you stand me? I'm a libertarian, VC, feeling extravert, who looks like a great ape."

She whispered in my ear, "You are all of that, and you don't just look like a great ape, you are a great ape, especially on the tennis court, but also in a bridge club, and, by the way, I watched your pathetic attempt at scuba diving..."

"And?" I asked.

"I don't sweat the small stuff," she said.