Skepticism

I'm sure it's happened to everyone at one point or another. You're debating with a believer about a topic close to her heart, and taking her to school. Hard.

She serves up anecdote after anecdote, but you don't miss a step. You are bombarded with logical fallacies, but return each with the ease and grace of a seasoned pro. You win point after point, set after set. You've never been able to express yourself as eloquently or clearly as you have been in this debate. Even you are surprised by your own adeptness. The game is nearing an end, and you think this might be it--the fabled love game of skepticism. Maybe, just maybe, you can actually make her see reason.

You can see she's tired. You recognize a glimmer of rationality in her eyes. You've sent her running all over the court for the entire match, and her struggling has made her realize that she's up against a much better player. She is starting to discover that maybe her beliefs are not as rock solid as she had suspected. She finally concedes that there is no reliable physical evidence or experimental replicability to support her claims. She lobs a Hail Mary into the air to give her time to catch her breath. This is it. Match point. If you place this stroke right, the debate is yours.

That's when it happens.

The glimmer of realization you thought you saw in her eyes suddenly erupts into flames of irrationality. Her tired expression is replaced by a grin. Her posture straightens, and her grip on her racquet tightens. You are put off by this change in her demeanor, and your arm falters mid-stroke. You watch in horror, thinking to yourself 'No... It can't be... please... not...'

That's when she drops the dreaded C-Bomb.

The rules have changed mid-game. You glance at the umpire, just to realize that he's been naught but a scarecrow all along. Suddenly, the lack of evidence somehow supports your opponent's beliefs. The ball splits into a million copies, and the court twists and contorts into impossible shapes as the net grows a hundred feet taller.

The game is over, but you haven't won. Nobody can win now. You make a few futile attempts to start up a new rally. "There's too many people involved, it's just not possible..." you serve. "Compartmentalization," she counters. Your ball doesn't even come close to clearing the distorted, impossibly high net. "But... Even I would have to be in on it..." you plead. She stares at you suspiciously.

Logic has decided to leave the stadium early--perhaps only to get a hot dog and a beer, you hope--but as time drags on, your optimism fades. You realize that it was a game you could never have won from the very beginning. There's only one thing left for you to do now.

You gather up your balls, and go home.