There’s a stack of unchecked lottery tickets on my desk.  Sometimes they sit there for months. Every now and then I uncover them when rifling through papers and for a few minutes I escape reality.  I’m not driven by money or material things and I’m blessed with work that modestly supports myself and my children.  But when my fingers sift through those tickets, my mind drifts to a place of opportunity, leisure – and dreams.  A place where I wouldn’t have to give a second thought to the cost of my children’s education.  A place where I could ditch my job and open an animal sanctuary.  A place where business writing would be a thing of the past and I could wile away the hours exploring my creative side. It’s a fun place to go, even though I know the odds are stacked against me.

There’s a man in my life who is my lottery ticket. He’s like no one I’ve met in quite some time. Yet my overwhelming attraction has morphed into a playful email distraction. I can’t say I don’t want to know more about him – I do.  But I’m guarded and fearful.  As as long as I don’t ‘check the numbers’ I can maintain the status quo and escape every now and then into a bubble that hasn’t burst.  I can keep my dreams alive. Not necessarily dreams of him. Dreams of what he represents. The possibilities. The unknown. The desire to believe that a kindred soul exists out there. Even though I know the odds are stacked against me.

Most of the time the arrangement works. Then there are other times. You see, I’m a dreamer but I’m a realist. The part of me that wants to feel like a teenager in love is constantly challenged by the woman who has been there – done that.  I’m naturally drawn to ‘check the numbers,’ yet anticipate a negative outcome. So I retreat to protect a fantasy. The possibilities. The dreams. A reality that doesn’t exist.  The winning lottery ticket.