I'm not much of a gambler.
Except of course the gamble I made following my acting dreams.
Or the gamble I made with my life that night I consumed half a bottle of Jack Daniels.
Or the recent gamble I made this past weekend taking my crazy in-financial-debt ass on a trip to Las Vegas.
Okay so I gamble all the time.
It just wasn't until this trip to Las Vegas that I actually GAMBLED gambled, like at a table with chips, and a dealer, and some middle-aged cocktail waitress in an ill fitted outfit that's basically had it with your shit before she's brought you your first cocktail.
I have previously had no use for trading my hard earned cash in exchange for multi-colored monopoly pieces to partake in a game of chance. A game that's designed for the house to win and everyone else to loose. I guess this time I figured 'if you can't beat them, join them' and seeing as all my friends were gathered around the Black Jack table, the thought of going off alone to pull lever's for pennies seemed unappealing. And yes, I'm talking about the slot machines.
So there I was in my shorts, crop top, and a neon pink mesh back hat that read THE GOAT (rewards from a conquest the night prior). A rather frail, mild mannered Indian woman stood behind the table seemingly misplaced for all the power she now held over us. I threw down a crisp hundred dollar bill onto the plush, vibrant colored table and was handed a stack of red colored chips. The cards were dealt by her swift, professional hand as I took a sip from my free beer, feeling like a BOSS ASS BITCH.
That was until it disappeared faster than most of my previous relationships.
I'd like to say I had any willpower and decided to cut myself off but by this point several Heinekens have made their way into my bloodstream and my inhibitions were down. What was really the harm, I thought, in pulling out another 40 bucks...in fact while I'm at it why not 60?
Good thing I don't have a gambling problem (or any money to my name), but it didn't stop me from pulling out another hundred bucks the next night as well. I can't say I didn't have a blast though. Every time I won I jumped (literally out of my chair) for joy and started hooting and hollering like the obnoxious, easily excited, child I am. When I lost there was the excitement of possible winnings on the next hand. The problem was that while I was playing by the 'book' I wasn't paying attention to what was on the rest of the table. And the cards weren't really in my favor. So much for beginners luck.
I won in other ways this weekend. Swimming in our glorious pool under a giant Eiffel Tower at the Paris Hotel in the Vegas sun. Free entrance to the hottest clubs on the strip. Sneaking past security to meet Ne-Yo. Consuming a delicious steak dinner at the sister restaurant I work for with VIP service. Overall the real win, what made all the money I gambled and spent truly worth it, was getting to spend time with my favorite people in the world, trampling around Vegas like we were going to die young.
I don't regret any of my losses, but I find myself sitting here now a BROKE ass bitch, trying to pick up doubles at my godforsaken job, the looming ghost of a career dream still breathing down my neck. Post Vacation Depression is a real thing and it has always hit me pretty hard. The thrill of travel sends me soaring and I can soak up all it's beauty and excitement and feel truly fulfilled. Then when I am back, I realize my life is exactly the same as I left it. A mess.
A beautiful, adventure filled, raging mess.
There's a part of me that wants it this way, that likes it this way. It's a mess I made after all and I am completely aware of all the wrong turns and backing up out of it I have made through the years. Part of me just feels ill equipped to even handle life at all. I have a vagabond spirit that doesn't innately like rules or responsibility or a sense that I can't at any moment drop it all for something else.
It's why I live in New York. It's why I don't have a boyfriend. It's why I don't partake in the 9-5 grind.
I have a soul that most days is urging me to take off all my clothes and run stark naked through the streets of New York causing mass chaos. Let's face it, even in my right mind I've pushed the acceptable limit of running around partially clothed in public a few times.
Life to me is most poignant when shit is fucked up. Who needs neat piles and pressed shirts and dull conversation from timid lips? In the end it's all over and what did any of it mean anyway? Why are we even here? And why is it so hard? And why don't any of us seem to ever have an answer?
And so my mind begins to fall down it's slippery slope to my ultimate anxiety attacks that leave me paralyzed in my bed starring at my ceiling like I did this morning. No clue what to do because I don't really know what I want.
What I do know is as exciting as uprooting my life and moving out to Vegas seems it won't take me away form the key to all my problems. Myself.
And while I can run around making money, partying around the globe, dancing on tables, or stages, or poles, after all the excitement wears away, the only thing I will have truly lost is time. Time I should have spent making something of myself.
You know, right now I'm not really sure what that something is. I thought I knew but all my childhood dreams seem to have betrayed me. Or maybe I betrayed them.
All I know is once I figure out what it is I truly want, I won't be scared to place my bet, and take a gamble.
A Broke-ass-thank-you-Vegas Record.
No comments:
Post a Comment