The Maybe Payoff
When falling in love feels like winning the Showcase Showdown
I am a gambler. I love scratch offs and slot machines and the thrill of “maybe.” It is because I am an optimist. Most rational people look at a slot machine with a giant jackpot flashing in lights and think, Yeah right. They see a scratcher promising the possibility of $10,000 per week for the rest of your life and walk away from the checkout line, scratcher un-purchased.
Not me. That “maybe” draws me in every time. Optimism — sweet, foolish optimism — is in my bones. My daddy was a gambler. He played the lottery religiously. Bought a ticket every week. He relished trips to the casinos in Oklahoma and Louisiana, or the jackpot of them all — Las Vegas. He always played to win, but rarely did. His game was video poker. He was on a perpetual hunt for the elusive Royal Flush. Game after game, he would throw away winning hands that would have netted a lesser win because he was on a mission for the top prize.
This seems stupid if you look at it pragmatically. Curious for myself, I went to that well of knowledge, Google, and asked, “Should you try for a royal flush in video poker?” It didn’t outright answer, “No, dummy,” but it came close.
According to Casino Player Magazine, you are likely to be dealt three of the five cards needed for a royal flush about one time every 7 to 8 hours of game play. It brings a real rush to get that close, and you think I almost had it! Even with those three cards, your odds of hitting a royal flush are 1 in roughly 380,000. So, yes, technically there is a chance, but it’s so small. Or is it?
In 2068, the Earth has a 1 in 380,000 chance of being struck by an asteroid the size of the Eiffel Tower. According to How Stuff Works, if an asteroid the size of a house struck Earth, it would have the same impact as the bomb dropped on Hiroshima. One the size of the Eiffel Tower would then, logically, be slightly worse. So that could happen. Or, you could hit a royal flush in video poker.
Somehow when it’s something bad, 1 in 380,000 sounds a little more likely. Why doesn’t it sound so possible when it’s something good? Why can’t we let ourselves hope and believe a little?
It was my known love of scratch-off lotto tickets or “scratchers” that got me standing on a balcony on the day before Easter this year. My sister, Shannon, and her best friend, Misti, had orchestrated our entire weekend getaway to the Broken Bow Lake area of southeast Oklahoma. It’s a beautiful refuge I’d been to a handful of times before with high school pals on weekend party trips.
Lush with greenery and a wide, blue horizon broken only by the dark blue of the lake, its beauty is stunning and frankly surprises people. You show them photos, and the reaction comes, “That is Oklahoma?” Yeah, it is, and maybe don’t besmirch an entire state if you’ve never been there.
Shannon and Misti rented a cabin for us all listed as “Viewtopia” on AirBNB with a panoramic view of the surrounding greenery and the lake in the distance. The back balcony proved an ideal place for me to write, or for Misti’s husband, Michael, and my brother-in-law, Aaron, to smoke cigars. It also turned out to be a great place to get engaged.
After my nieces had finished their day-early Easter egg hunt out front on Saturday morning, we settled into the living room watching the girls pop eggs open and emptying out the candy inside.
I had been told earlier to dress up because we’d be taking family Easter pictures. Reluctantly, I changed from a flannel and my Curb Your Enthusiasm “Pretty pretty pretty pretty good” shirt into a semi-nice blouse from Target, black with small flowers. I paired it with the only pair of jeans I wear and my walking shoes — navy blue Allbirds with athletic socks.
That morning as Paris shaved, fixed up his hair, and meticulously chose his outfit, I mentioned that I had a “real all-natural mermaid look” going on with my hair. It had air dried the night before, and I didn’t want to fight with dragging comb through it.
“Do you maybe want to comb your hair?” he asked.
“Nahh.”
In the living room before the girls’ Easter egg hunt, Misti mentioned how she’d be putting on makeup and a dress.
“I left my makeup bag in Dallas,” I said. Her eyes bulged.
In my jeans and Target blouse, hair in beachy, tangled waves, and with my unmade-up face, I sat with the kids and Paris in the living room in a sea of plastic eggs.
Without warning, Shannon and Misti rounded us up and herded the entire crew to the back porch.
“We don’t want Easter to be just about the kids,” Shannon said. “So we came up with a little plan.”
“My dentist said her kids are grown, and instead of candy in the eggs, she hides eggs with cash and lottery tickets,” Misti said. “When she told me that, I thought what a fun idea it would be to do a grown-up Easter egg hunt for us.” I do concur that grown-ups like lotto tickets and money, but we like candy, too. Nevertheless.
“The dads can work with the kids to hunt, and Heather and Paris can be on a team.”
Like most things in life, I said ok and got to it. My brother-in-law and younger niece went ahead of us, and the other dad-daughter pair brought up the rear. Paris and I walked the wrap-around balcony as I gathered plastic Easter eggs in my hand.
A couple things: I was not given an Easter basket. This made things difficult as I cradled the eggs in my arm like a ridiculous infomercial actor fumbling in black-and-white being asked by a narrator, “Got too many eggs to handle? Try the Egg-o-Matic!”
Hands full, I was forced to work smarter, not harder. I noticed that the smaller eggs had cash in them while the larger eggs contained the scratchers. I stopped going for the small eggs. After all, I know where to find cash — the ATM, or cash-back at the grocery store, or in a piggybank I keep on top of my dryer. What I wanted was that sweet, sweet scratchin’ paper, which meant I was leaving the small eggs behind.
My smallest niece spotted a shimmering gold egg perched up on one of the cabin’s jutting crossbeams, about six feet in the air.
“Oh, look! A gold one!” she said.
Too busy with my scratchers to help her, I said, “Oh yeah, you should have your dad get that one for you.” My brother-in-law didn’t reach up. He ignored it and me and kept walking forward, shooing his daughter away from the eggs and ushering her around a corner, out of sight.
Behind me, the other dad-daughter duo were picking up eggs and trailing close behind.
“Babe, move!” his wife called to him. He slid backward, kid in hand, away from us. I continued collecting lotto eggs, unbothered.
“You should grab that egg,” Paris said, pointing at the gold egg above our heads.
I noted it was small. “Nah, it’s not one of the ones with the scratchers in it.”
He insisted. “Grab that one.”
I only remember what happened next because of the many videos taken of the moment. At the time, I kind of blacked out.
“Open it,” he said.
“Let me see, hold on,” I said, struggling with the six or seven eggs I was holding. “I wanted scratchers,” I continued, placing the eggs down on the wooden bench of the porch. They fell to the floor. “Oh no, my scratchers!” I yelled in a much more country tone than usual.
As soon as I cracked the golden egg, I screamed, jumping from one foot to the other as if I’d been called to come on down on The Price is Right.
“The greatest egg of all,” I said after screaming. “Oh my God. I’m going to faint off the side. I’m going to faint off the thing.”
With the utmost sincerity through my subsiding screams, Paris told me he’d never been happier since we met and that he wanted to keep doing this forever.
“This” apparently is living with my unbridled enthusiasm. My response was, “Oh my God. I had no idea. I thought it was going to be a scratch-off lottery ticket. It’s the best, though, it’s so much better. I love you so much.” It all poured out then I wrapped him in a hug and a kiss.
It’s important in life to find someone who balances you out. While I tried sealing the deal immediately, Paris reminded me that I hadn’t been asked anything yet.
“I know, but I love you.” I said, hugging him. I let go. “Ok, now you can ask me.”
He then dropped to one knee, which prompted another round of screaming and Price is Right jumps. When he asked, “Heather, will you marry me?” I screamed once again like I’d won the Showcase Showdown. Getting to marry him feels pretty much like I did.
For about a dozen years starting in my early 20s, I had it in my head I wasn’t a catch. I thought people “put up” with me or “dealt with” me. I believed whatever boyfriends I could get were the best I could do. That I was lucky to have anybody. I believed that as a beggar, I was in no place to be a chooser. I wasn’t shooting for the royal flush, but instead was clinging to every hand, feeling grateful for each pair of twos I’d been dealt.
When I lost my dad in September 2017, something started to shift inside me. See, he was the one who believed I could do no wrong. I have a card he wrote me I keep as the wallpaper on my phone. It says, “Every time I hear of something you said or did, I always say, ‘That’s my daughter.’ I’m so proud of you. I love you very much. — Dad.”
Even if I dated fuckabouts and pairs-of-twos, I at least had that card up my sleeve. I knew, in his eyes, I was the best thing that ever hit this planet. But I didn’t believe it for myself. Not until he was gone.
They say when people die, energy can’t be created or destroyed. I know his energy — that part that was always proud of things I said and did, and that unceasing hope and optimism that the next hand could be a royal flush — became a part of me when he died.
The shift that started when he died grew over the years into an avalanche. By the time I was ready to meet Paris, I had stopped hanging on to things that no longer served me in a belief that the best that I could do was just OK. I decided not to settle and not to believe people must “put up” with me. I had decided to be proud of who I am and what I offer and believe in the value of my time. I also decided to date only hot guys.
I had settled for dating just-OK guys for a long time. (If you’re reading this, fellas, first of all — why you here? Second of all, you know I’m not wrong.) When you do the math on it, shooting for mediocrity really doesn’t make sense. We’re each only endowed with our one “wild and precious life.” Why waste it with anyone who doesn’t make your heart flutter or think you shit rainbows and vomit up sunshine?
Enter Paris. Spring of 2019, I had previously deleted all the dating apps on my phone, done with the parade of just-OK I had endured. Then in March, as I co-officiated my friend Lindsay’s wedding, I saw the pure and true love that happened between the bride and her new husband, Jay. The man sobbed when he saw her in her dress. He sobbed when she walked down the aisle. They beamed at each other in a love that filled up the whole church. The whole city, actually. It was fricken adorable, ok? And I thought, if a pair like that, so perfectly matched, could meet on Bumble… well, maybe things weren’t all lost for me.
So I re-downloaded the app and within weeks matched with Paris. Initially, I was convinced that I was being catfished. First of all, he’s hot. Second of all, his name is Paris. Clearly fake. Third, he mentioned coffee and tacos and movies in his profile. All things that sound designed to hook me.
Even all this time later, all the hours we’ve spent together, all the things we have gone through — some days I don’t believe he’s real. I mean, yes, I have a ring on my hand and he put it there. But who’s to say that’s not all part of the con? It’s not a con, of course. The fact is, when you win big, it feels unbelievable.
In the end, I got my royal flush, my one-in-three-hundred-thousand- asteroid-striking-the-earth. Sometimes the house wins, sure, but every once in a while, someone’s gotta be the one who hits the big win. I’m glad it was me this time. I’m glad I held out hope in the face of catastrophic odds. I can’t help it. I’m optimistic. What can I say? It’s in my genes.
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