You ever have a situation with a lover just totally fizzle? Indifference sets in, and you push the many "what ifs" out of your head until the point in your life comes get that phone call. What the hell right? You've been single all of this time, what's the harm in seeing what they have to say?
This happened to me not too long ago. Except I was on the poker table, now grinding poker for income, when I got the phone call from the ex.
"Hey are things? Its been a while. Blah blah blah gratuitous blah blahs...would you like to meet up? I will buy you dinner."
"Sure"
I get up from the table and cash out my chips. Wait for the 2003 Camry to flash her lights at me from the valet section in front of the casino. Me, dressed in full Unabomber garb that has become part of my daily habit: black hoodie...extra dark shades...large, studio type , comfy (albeit ripped for assured air-conditioned air flow) jeans.
I get in the car and slump against the passenger side door.
My ex took one long look at me. The same ex who never understood anything about poker, why I loved it, why I played it, hell, why ANYONE played it, taught me one of my biggest lessons about the game that night.
"I finally understand why you love poker so much."
"Eh?" I mumbled. Barely was I paying attention.
"It's your escape."
I didn't say anything. But the more I thought about it, the more I was right.
The poker table is the one place you can totally zone out your problems. You replace each individual worry in your mind with each particular donkey that chose to sit down with you and attack them with the same vigor and zeal that you wish you had to deal with your real problems.
Is this kinda cowardly? Perhaps. Unhealthy? Maybe.
But I wouldn't have it any other way. Shuffle up and deal, suckers.
This happened to me not too long ago. Except I was on the poker table, now grinding poker for income, when I got the phone call from the ex.
"Hey are things? Its been a while. Blah blah blah gratuitous blah blahs...would you like to meet up? I will buy you dinner."
"Sure"
I get up from the table and cash out my chips. Wait for the 2003 Camry to flash her lights at me from the valet section in front of the casino. Me, dressed in full Unabomber garb that has become part of my daily habit: black hoodie...extra dark shades...large, studio type , comfy (albeit ripped for assured air-conditioned air flow) jeans.
I get in the car and slump against the passenger side door.
My ex took one long look at me. The same ex who never understood anything about poker, why I loved it, why I played it, hell, why ANYONE played it, taught me one of my biggest lessons about the game that night.
"I finally understand why you love poker so much."
"Eh?" I mumbled. Barely was I paying attention.
"It's your escape."
I didn't say anything. But the more I thought about it, the more I was right.
The poker table is the one place you can totally zone out your problems. You replace each individual worry in your mind with each particular donkey that chose to sit down with you and attack them with the same vigor and zeal that you wish you had to deal with your real problems.
Is this kinda cowardly? Perhaps. Unhealthy? Maybe.
But I wouldn't have it any other way. Shuffle up and deal, suckers.
No comments :
Post a Comment