I’ve been getting these urges... almost like auras before a migraine, or so I assume, for I am not a sufferer. I’ll be working in the barn, walking the dog, reading Popular Photography, or something equally random and innocuous and all of a sudden a little signal goes off in my head that flashes “MUST PLAY POKER.” I recognize the impulse. The difference now is that the urge passes. More or less.
It’s no secret that I have weaned myself off of 200 hand days; the Pavlovian effects of a errant ticker will do that. That doesn’t mean I haven’t played. Nosiree. For instance, just last night I played thirty-five hands at the Deuce and won 4BBs. I even dropped in at PA the other night after a couple-week hiatus.
“Fek, I thought you were dead.” That’s Stan’s way of saying he missed me. Others were more appropriate in their greetings. I stuck around for about fifty hands and broke even.
And after encouraging words from friends last week, I two-tabled some PLO Hi-Lo for a whopping 200 hands one night, for which I got my ass handed to me to the tune of a buy-in. Figured I was rivered and didn’t care with given odds. Usually I’d stick around after such a loss and hope to get some of it back. That night clearly I could care less.
And that’s the thing: I can pretty much care less. And that’s because before, back in the day, I cared too much. Or not enough. Or both. I was good enough to get in trouble but didn’t want to work hard enough to get better, so disappointment was assured. So, why bother?
Well, it’s kinda like cold bacon grease in the bottom of the cast iron skillet after a nice brunch. The aftermath, anyway. Heat it up, pour it in a ball jar.
In other words, every once in a while I still have a hankerin’, and when it gets strong enough, I’ve got enough fat stored up that I’ll indulge in some eggs and home fries.