There was a time early in my life that I exercised no self-discipline whatsoever.
I mean, really.
Many of the short stories and situations I got myself into in late 70’s-early 80’s Las Vegas are included in my book EMOTIONS: Not your Mama’s ABC’s!
I had it all figured out: I was actually making money as a gambler, I was twenty-five and renting the top floor of my condo out to three strippers.
A typical day on my year-long hot streak was spent like a mafia boss: a workout in the gym followed by a massage at Caesar’s spa, breakfast at the top of the Landmark, and a trip downtown to the casinos there: the Four Queens, Union Plaza, Golden Nugget, Binion’s Horseshoe, California Club, The Mint, and the Westward Ho with their neon cowboy and cowgirl.
I once won 28 thousand dollars playing Blackjack at the old Westward Ho doubling down my 14g bet on a pair of fives. I drew nine and held.
The dealer was showing a face card, but only turned over a six which, of course, she was obliged to hit.
Thank you, Mr. Nine.
I spent every cent I ever made gambling and I made a lot. Vegas was the perfect place to do so.
At the behest of my attorney and several members of the Las Vegas Metro police department, in 1981, I left Las Vegas, never to return.
There is a fine line that I used to dance between hedonism and bad behavior. My buddies were, for the most part, stoners, gamblers, and/or musicians like myself and we never had anyone to reel us in, not even each other; we were way too selfish and irresponsible for that.
But we always had those couple of guys in our group that you just didn’t know about, so you just didn’t fuck with them.
Guys that might show up from time to time with prison tattoos and wads of money.
And drugs.
And guns.
I was too much of a pussy to be a gun-toting badass.
Lover, not a fighter and all that rot.
But for a very short period of time, I got way too close to the wrong people and had to finally get my head on straight, which I managed to do with the help of another woman on the run in the City of Gold.
Eating disorder.
I don’t care for that term.
It is NOT a “disorder.”
You eat too much.
Solution: eat less.
I get it; but eating entire boxes and bags in bulk of snack food and cookies and candies, for example, that’s just no self-discipline.
It kills Karen that I look up the exact number of chips to meet a minimally-detrimental amount of salt, fat, and chemicals to ingest. I adjust for pieces of chips and I will not place one more chip over the prescribed amount. The more time I take, and the more fastidious I am about arranging my chips on the plate, the more infuriated the Domestic Despot gets. (marriage hack #432).
Since I used to have NO self-discipline, I have ascended to the highest moral ground and forgive no one for their lack of self-control.
It’s nice up here.
Stay well.
