Crapshoot

I know I should have called him. But if I did, how would I have ever found out if he would have called me? And I know I should not have played any games. But without one, how was I ever going to find my way through this way too straightforward relationship?

When you boil it all down, dating is really no more than one big game. Right? The more I think about them, the more I marvel at how suprisingly accurate are the Theories of LCJ. Slurring-ly dispelled to me on a balcony in Charlottesville - in between sips of a Nattie Light and drags of a Marlboro - she taught me one of the most important lessons of college: Love is a Crapshoot. (It is also a battlefield, but that lesson was taught while standing in beer sludge inside a fraternity basement, NOT on a balcony...)

And so by not calling, I found out. By playing a game I got my bearings. Since he always bought dinner, the only money I lost during this crapshoot was on a couple cups of coffee. And the emotional wounds from this battlefield are relatively small. They can be healed with a small band-aid.

I am sad. But willing to anti-up again. Not willing to bet hard sixes that he'll call again, but I'll venture a bet on the pass line. Because thing best thing about craps is that the house advantage actually isn't that terribly out of wack. In the short run, we CAN win at craps, and hopefully, in love.