Being “good with numbers” is pretty much a requirement for any successful businessperson.
I don’t care to even think about how much money I wasted in my life.
The amount would disgust some, but I don’t give a shit.
It makes me smile.
And it gave me true stories that others can only read about.
I didn’t plan it; it just worked out that way.
Last night I dreamed that Karen and I were on a plane to somewhere, and I recall the differing shades of blue to green waters as we cruised, apparently with no particular destination.
I was cool with that.
We were playing five-card stud and I was winning every pot (remember, it is my dream).
Then, as we approached a landmass, the sky got angry with our intrusion and a sudden fierce headwind caused the plane, now a giant C-130 Air Force cargo plane, to come to a dead stall.
Ten feet off the ground.
The next thing you know, we were finishing our hand and I remember we were spread out on a green field eating crusty French bread and spreading fresh Devonshire butter on it, and some luscious Bonne Maman Boysenberry preserves.
Heaven on Earth.
Along with the day’s first Bordeaux of the season, the glow of a late afternoon in the vineyard with only God whispering in your ear.
Ah, but that’s life.
For a fortunate few.
My life’s numbers do include 24-hr stints at some of the most renown casinos in the world, when Mr. Dumbass took over, buying Dom for everybody. You should check out the story I write about this affair in Emotions: Not your Mama’s ABC’s!
Those numbers aside, I ignored a lot of numbers.
My A1C numbers which showed my sugar intake.
I always have given myself more credit for my intelligence, I know that, but when you are faced with real numbers like how many days until you can get a prosthetic leg, or how many days you have to watch your spouse do everything for you, or how many events you just can’t attend, go ahead, ignore the numbers.
Chalk up another below-the-knee (BK) surgery to yet another genius who figured he would be the first in mankind’s history to defeat diabetes.
My magic potion?
Seagram’s VO whiskey and Budweiser chasers.
I knew way more than the physicians and surgeons.
All the way until the conversation went from lifestyle changes, exercise regimens, and medication adjustments, to how much of my beautiful left leg they were going to saw off and discard in a medical waste dump.
There are still way too many deaths due to the misuse of alcohol.
I’m not promoting abstinence.
It sucks, actually.
But time and place, no driving, these things and these decisions must be better than your predecessors (like me).
Remember, I didn’t stop drinking because I didn’t like the taste.
I would love nothing more than to slam about three shots of VO and splash an ice-cold Bud until I feel the sharp bite on my tongue.
But I can’t.