Things Just Not the Same Since Mario Came to Stay

My husband and I have thought about this thing, brooded over it, heard the horror stories, the testimonials from people who say they would never, ever have it in their home.

But, what the heck, we thought the kid might like it.

And he does. My husband, that is. He’s been playing it so much that his thumb is sore. He complains about this now and again.

Our daughter, well, she thinks the thing is . . . kind of OK. “But how come Daddy’s acting so strange?” she says.

This is simple. My husband is a man possessed. He’s channeling a little computer guy named Mario, hellbent on saving some princess, from what I hear.

All I know is that this princess is clearly not me.

So everything I’ve heard about Nintendo is true. Of course, I’m alone on this now. My husband has gone over the edge. Yo, Princess! I’m coming for you soon !

I should have known. Even before the thing was completely out of the box, the specter of a fatal attraction loomed.

He opened it early, before my daughter’s birthday, just to make sure that everything was all right. It was not.

He tried it on every TV in the house, with the gigantic, easy-to-follow installation instructions spread at his side. This is a single sheet, poster-size, with very big type, sort of a primer for electronics manuals to come.

No matter; Mario did not appear. Instead garbled words flashed, then melted off the screen. The sun beat down outside, but at our house, the curtains were drawn.

It was spooky. I took our daughters and headed to the store. When I asked my husband whether he wanted to come, he looked at me as if I were the one who was going mad.

He was on the phone when we got back. The Nintendo hot line. Yet the expert was apparently of no help. He said he had never heard of such a problem before. So my husband loaded up the thing and within minutes, was out the door. He returned it.

And brought another one right back.

This one went in easy. It was a snap.

Moreover, the installation process has honed my husband’s Mr. Fix-It skills. Maybe soon he’ll try changing the clock on the VCR. The problem before was he had neglected to push the Mario game all the way in. This time, he heard a snap . Yes, I married this man for his mind.

Now Mario finally appeared. My husband smiled.

That was days ago, you understand. My husband’s look has since changed. Mostly it’s concentration that’s etched across his face, although sometimes he hoots with what I imagine is glee. My husband hasn’t actually taken the princess in his, er, Mario’s arms, although he tells me that he’s seen her up close.

A neighbor kid, 9 years old, came over and apparently flaunted his Nintendo prowess in front of my husband’s face. The princess, after some 30 minutes of nonstop play, appeared when this other had the controls in his 9-year-old hands. Then he rescued her. Fair and square.

I know all this because my husband is keeping me informed, with a mixture of pleasure and guilt. He is aware that something is not quite right. He has never taken to our daughter’s birthday presents in such a way before.

She, I figure, will get over it. Kids are resilient that way. And me, I’ve lived through worse.

When my husband started shaving his legs--giving me this business about how all the guys he rides his bike with are similarly shorn--the truth is I worried just a tad. Now I couldn’t care less if my stubble outgrows his own.

And I’ve even played Nintendo with my husband too. I’m no Mario, but my Luigi is coming around.

So I was beginning to think that this Nintendo stuff wasn’t as insidious as it might seem. The princess is not out to steal my man.

Then the other morning, I was on my way to work. My husband had the day off. I bent over to kiss him goodby.

“Look what you made me do!” my husband shrieked.

Huh?

Then I looked toward the TV. Mario was crumpling and falling off the screen.

And I was glad.

Eat dust, Mario. And die.