Everything in It's Place

My dear and patient wife has a sometimes endearing, frequently annoying habit of not storing items in a consistent manner. This most often perpetuates itself in the case of kitchen utensils, plunging me into My Own Personal Hell as I open every cabinet looking for the cheese grater.

The coup de grace, however, is fingernail clippers. I must have purchased a dozen of these in our time together, all of them lost at one time or another to her whims. I have marked some with my initials, forbidding her to even touch them ("No, don't even look at it"). I bought her a pedicure set a birthday or two back, complete with her own professional-style pewter clippers. Didn't help. At least half the time I go for the clippers, they are not in my medicine cabinet.

It's a good thing for her that she's nearly perfect otherwise.

I got to thinking about wandering soup ladles as she and I lay in bed last night. She's becoming less interested in poker talk, which has presented something of a problem for me lately. I have been absorbing multiple and myriad beats, shit on by the ass end of Variance, and it's consuming me. Was a time where I would rant and rave in this space, but everything I try to put down comes out whiny and self-indulgent, which I am not. Okay, I'm not whiny.

She let me get it out last night, however. The frustration poured out of me, beginning with the River 5-outer that busted me in the $20 multi. How I'd played perfectly all evening, not a single chip dumped unnecessarily, only to get sucked out in a crucial spot. How I have trouble letting go of those beats.

Definitely consumed.

So she asked me if it was worth it. I weighed the question and answered with a qualified yes. It IS worth it, but not like this.

We talked about where poker belonged in my life, in which compartment I should store it. I do pretty well balancing family, work and personal responsibilities with my play. Each has its time and place. What I DON'T do is allow my mind enough time to be poker-free.

When I write, I often blaze out a first draft in no time at all. I rarely like it, but getting the bare bones of the story and theme gives me a canvas upon which to create a finished product. One of the paths I take is to walk away from the story for a few days, returning to attack it fresh, with a different, and often surprising, perspective.

I haven't applied that same method to poker. It's burrowed itself too deeply inside my head. I can't extract it, separate it or find new angles to analyze it. As such, I repeat the same machinations over and over, a stagnant exercise to say the least. I need a fresh approach. I need to sit at the tables not over-burdened by past sessions that I've allowed to fester.

So where does poker belong?

Poker belongs off to the side. I'll never be--nor aspire to be--a pro. It's my competitive outlet. It's an intriguing mystery I like trying to solve. It's payoffs are elusive and rewarding, a hand perfectly played, a lightbulb moment.

All those things that I love about poker, however, are in danger. Because its hold is too tight. Its influence too strong. The mistakes, the beats, are overwhelming the journey. If I can't relax its grip, I'll be burned out in no time.

I need to find the proper place to put poker aside. Where I can close the mental door and be shut off from it. Where I can pull it out and see it in a different light, instead of the omnipresent black cloud of recent days.

As long as I can remember where I put it.