We've been.*
*Shakespearean freedom of grammar incomprehensible sentences yields.
So we* were reading one of our favorite bulletin boards the other day, see, and we stumbled across a discussion about puzzling. Putting together jigsaw puzzles, I mean.
* For those who wonder who "we" is and occasionally see a reference to Michelle, she is my roommate. Since both of us work full time, don't get out much, and will soon be going to school full time on top of that, "we" are pretty much one another's only social life.
The thread began with a link to this article, which forwards the theory that the way you puzzle* says something about your personality. Up to that point, it had never occurred to me that there were different approaches to puzzling. I thought you just fit pieces together until there were none left. After reading the brief article on it and the discussion that sprang from it, I've learned that there are many different ways to approach puzzling.
* I seek ways to make sentences more concise. I've replaced the phrase "put puzzles together" with the term "puzzle" with the same meaning. Because I like the rhythm of it. Living language. Sue me.
The major divisions, apparently, are "border obsessives" and "opportunistic puzzlers." Border obsessives are those who need to complete the border first, by golly. They seem to crave the implicit order and find comfort in a clearly-defined outline. They need that feeling of design and purpose, I suppose (or maybe I'm reading way more into it than is really there). (If you want to drive a border obsessive to distraction, pick up an inobtrusive edge piece--better yet, a corner piece--when the puzzle is initially dumped and put it in your pocket.)
Opportunistic puzzlers are those who just work with whatever's available, edges or none. They aren't bothered by the lack of clear dimensions, content to let various areas evolve in the direction of least resistence.
People can fall somewhere along the continuum between the two, as well. Most people do, depending upon circumstances.
When the thread first started, we'd just completed a puzzle ball (of German origin, methinks) we'd just acquired (Christmas present). It was a puzzle of the globe, and the pieces were plastic, so the globe would be fairly strong and remain intact once assembled. It wasn't a really good puzzle to determine personality from, though. Well...much.
See, the backs of the pieces were numbered. I'm still not sure why. Michelle began the puzzle by turning all her pieces on their face and assembling by number. Which is just weird, if you ask me. I objected to this practice as that meant I couldn't see the face of them, and I might need something she thought was hers. We bickered about this until she figured out that the puzzle was more fun (and probably easier) if she just looked at the pictures like a sane person.
That puzzle took us a couple of days, and we solved the cat problem with a bedsheet over the table. The cats thought this was an invitation to lay on it, but the puzzle was strong enough to withstand even the weight of well-fed and lazy felines. The sheet was partially effective. We still had a missing piece for a few hours.
After the puzzleball and the online discussion, we were in the mood to work another puzzle, so I stopped at Wallyworld and picked up a couple of cheapie puzzles. One was 750 pieces and the other was 1000. I haven't bought a puzzle in years, but I commend the folk who manufacture them for figuring out that the pieces needn't be contained in a flat, thin box that squashes and rips and bends easily and loses pieces. Now, they put them in a fatter and sturdier box. Whoever facilitated that seemingly insignificant change, thank you for doing your part to make the world a better place.
So we got started on the 750 piece puzzle a few days ago. Mich is definitely a border obsessive. That's fine with me, though. The border has to be done at some point, right? No worries. Meanwhile, I noticed that I'm very much an opportunistic puzzler. I realized at some point that I was working on five different areas at once. This seemed to make my scan for useable pieces more productive and less frustrating--thus, more enjoyable. But that's just me.
I noticed other differences of approach. Mich studied the picture on the box. I barely looked at it. To me, it's more fun to figure out how to solve the puzzle using only the pieces in front of me. Mich picks up a piece then tries it in several likely spots. I study the spot in question, then find the most likely piece and fit it. (This is generalization only; there's some overlap in method.) I'm not sure what this says about either of us, but it was an interesting observation.
Today, we finished the 750 piece puzzle, "finish" being defined as "interconnected all the pieces available at this time." There's a piece missing. I figure it's only a matter of time before the cats play it back into view. Like the last puzzle.
By the way, I'd forgotten how relaxing puzzling is. You can put on music or not, and you can talk or remain silent, and it's still peaceful and comfortable. You become focused on the immediate problem at hand (finding a piece to fit in that spot), and forget those problems that have plagued you for a while. It's almost a zen state.
While in this zen state, I became somewhat bored, so I picked up a piece in the almost-finished puzzle and put it where it looked like it should fit. Only it didn't. It looked right, though, and it almost fit. Besides, I kept picking up the same piece and trying it in the same spot (as if the puzzle gods would smile on me this time). It was a bit too large for the slot and it wouldn't settle, so I just left it there, sticking up slightly, and went in search of another piece elsewhere.
Presently, Mich came across it in her endless quest to fit the piece in her hand somewhere. She paused and tried to settle it in. Like I said...it looked like it should go there. I stopped what I was doing and said, "Hey! If it doesn't fit, don't force it. Obviously, it doesn't go there."
For my troubles, I got that incredulous blank, blinking look that conveyed an offended sense of justice as well as (I think) an unspoken admiration of my gall. But she said only, "Bitch."
Thus encouraged, I sporadically left almost-right pieces wedged in the wrong spot. I'm addicted, I tell you.
It's a good day to be alive. In a few hours, the cats will find the missing piece and the puzzle will be complete.
d
