I hated poker for most of my life. In the 90’s, as my dad and brothers ante’d up at our kitchen table for Texas Hold ‘em while I ferried the snack bowls. The game felt exclusionary and deceptive. I spent a decade curating a personal brand that was anti-gambling, traveling to Las Vegas for my annual sales conference and never once putting a dollar in a slot machine, certainly not on a card table.
Then, at age 39, already divorced once, my husband of less than two years left me and took his three young kids with him. I’d gone “all in” with him, and then had nothing to show for it. I didn’t know where to put the enormous feeling of loss, so I took it with me when I moved out, along with a vow to never again trust myself to gamble on anyone.
While I was heartbroken in Chicago, my dad joined storied games all over the world using connections from his bookie, Ryan Feldman, playing with pros who made it to the final tables in the main event at The World Series of Poker in Las Vegas. I still found it foolish, worried he would lose his retirement or alienate my mom with what I thought was reckless behavior.
The author and her boyfriend, Jason, in Las Vegas. (Courtesy Andrea Javor)
After a few years, I tried dating again. I met “Catholic Guy,” an attractive, polite man who asked me what I thought about abortion on our first date. He should have been an easy pass given my vehement defense of women’s rights, but I waffled through to a second date over thin crust pizza and realized I felt further from myself than ever. My anxiety followed me to a seafood joint where I met a divorced dad and roller-coaster enthusiast. I tucked a plastic bib into my collar wondering how much dramamine I’d need to make things work with him. Then came the air traffic controller who told me he hated his family while we sipped Manhattans. We didn’t make it to the second round of drinks.
Even when a mismatch wasn’t so glaring, I’d look for something wrong and quickly move on. I thought of my dad playing poker and imagined myself folding my cards, but I over-rotated on the poker face, not letting anyone in. The more I exerted control, the more risk I eliminated, the further I felt from finding a real connection.
The ultimate test came when a dating app sent me an underwriter named Jason. We ate tacos on our second date, and I asked him what he liked to do outside of work. He smiled and said, “I’m actually a decent poker player.” The game had already become an uneasy metaphor in my life, and I thought I could use it as a red flag to push him away. Poker players could be sophisticated at trickery. He was seasoned at bluffing. I didn’t even know the game.
The more I exerted control, the more risk I eliminated, the further I felt from finding a real connection.
He was, though, one of the most honest, forthcoming people I’d ever met. When he didn’t want to do something, he told me flat out. He didn’t shift in his chair when I asked about his previous marriage, like my exes did. I scrutinized for actual red flags and couldn’t find any. I thought he would give up on me (I was practically begging him to as I told him I could only see him once a week and called him at erratic intervals), but he met my drama with a grounded, confident smile.
Still, at the point of committing to another relationship, I hesitated out of fear. I didn’t know how to bet on him, or us, or anything. I spent an afternoon with my family, and as my niece and nephews played in the yard, running through a sprinkler as yacht rock cloyed my ears, I thought about how both of my brothers had what I’d briefly enjoyed: marriage, children, the feeling of family.
My dad, the shrewd poker player and businessman, sat down next to me. I tried to hide the tears behind my sunglasses on an otherwise pleasant day. He presented with the same stoic stature he held at the poker table, and I had no idea what he was going to say. He and my mom had been married over 45 years. I couldn’t summon any words, but wanted to scream, how can I ever trust myself to love again? Without context, as though he could read my mind, he offered, “You go all in with people. That’s just what you do… and that’s what makes you my beautiful daughter.” He paused and smiled, “And you’ll do it again someday.”
The author (center) with Jason (left) and her father (right). (Courtesy Andrea Javor)
I didn’t play poker, but I understood that fully committing to people might not be such a bad thing. For fear of being hurt, I’d leapt to the other end of the spectrum of my all-or-nothing pattern: Instead of marrying this guy quickly, like I’d done with my two ex-husbands, I was pushing him away. Through my theatrics, Jason showed up consistently as a kind, direct, stable figure in my life. He broke through the unhealthy game I’d started playing to protect myself. It was then I realized I had been playing a game of poker with myself, all my life. I just wasn’t very good at it.
Finally, I let Jason teach me the official rules of Texas Hold ‘em — my first lesson at age 42, a lifetime in the making. After several months of practice with friends, we took a weekend trip to Las Vegas to test his teaching skills at The Aria. Watching the self-assured strangers wearing shiny sunglasses shuffle their poker chips with one hand, I felt exposed and uncomfortable making big moves on the garish red felt. A far cry from the friendly family games we’d played, I had $300 in chips in front of me in denominations I still wasn’t sure of as I examined the small red, black, green and blue discs. I nervously awaited the dealer to point at me when it was my turn.
I folded my hand when a guy across the table made a big raise on me. Jason asked what I had. I whispered, “Aces … but, I don’t know, I was scared.” I knew pocket aces won 80% of the time, but, to me, even those highly favorable odds still seemed risky.
Jason smiled while gathering his cards as the next hand was dealt. “You can’t play scared.” He leaned over and said, “Go all-in next time you have aces.” He looked at his cards then added, “Each hand will play out differently. If you lose, so what, you ante up again, baby.”
It was my turn to either call, raise or fold. I glanced at my cards, as Jason nodded at me as if to say, “You got this.” I smiled at him and let out an exhale I’d been holding for what felt like two decades. I relaxed in my chair and put three chips in the center. Finally, I knew exactly what I was betting on.
