For a week, I was a Sudoku genius. Except for the fact that I couldn’t say the word. Numbers aren’t my thing, so I always passed by the Sudokus in the paper. One day, Steve explained how to play and asked me to look at his puzzle. "That’s an 8," I said, while watching my husband’s jaw drop.

He showed me another troublesome spot. "Oh, a 2 goes there." Right again.

Steve thought I was some sort of savant. I never knew I had such a gift. For seven days, I basked in the glory of his admiration.

That ended when we boarded a plane a couple days ago. I tried to work the Sudoku in the flight magazine and after making so many mistakes (in ink) that it became completely unreadable, I realized my gift had disappeared as quickly as it came. It was a fluke. I’m not a Sudoku genius after all.

That really is too bad since I happen to be married to a Rainman type of person. Steve merely has to look at a jumble and his mind sorts it out. On the plane, while I struggled with my Sudoku, he finished a few crosswords, jumbles, and even a Mensa puzzle. Mensa. Now there’s no living with him and his enlarged brain.

We read once that these kinds of puzzles help us fight dementia, along with learning a foreign language and ballroom dancing, of all things.  Steve will be well-fortified against senility. Of course, today he can’t find his keys. Or his wallet. Or his sunglasses. . . . .