Greg Jenks | nausea | Colorado | Dallas

I realize how Pavlovian my response to this predicament has become. Feelings of withdrawal grow in my deepest recesses.  Do my neighbors recognize my nervousness and my obvious agitation? Is this a big-enough emergency to justify calling a flight attendant, who seems preoccupied with getting the other passengers mere drinks? To push the call button would be a tacit admission of dependency.

I succumb. The attendant pulls herself away from her work to respond speedily to my plight, perhaps expecting a bout of nausea or some other emergency. When I tell her that I need a fresh American Way, one without a completed Sudoku, she looks disappointedly at me, perhaps with a hint of disdain. She's met my kind before. Visible traces of scorn line her face. Without any sense of urgency, she leaves me, promising only that she will see what she can do. Seconds turn into minutes. I watch her slowly make her way down the aisle serving those drinks. Beads of perspiration grace my brow. My heart palpitates. How long must I wait?

I try to breathe deeply while picturing myself on a sunny tropical beach or rapidly skiing down a Colorado double black diamond. Must ... not ... panic. I feel a tap on my shoulder, and there the flight attendant is, with a virgin AW in hand. My hands tremble with excitement, as I still have time to get through all three puzzles before we land.

Greg Jenks, Dallas, Texas

Dear Greg: We wish we could say there are groups for people like you. Alas, we haven't yet heard about any Sudoku Anonymous meetings going on. But admitting one's ­dependency is the first step toward coming to terms with it. Good luck to you.

NO CONTEST