Chick Wit: In cards, in love, ready to take a hit

Recently, two friends and I decided to break free from our everyday lives and escape to Atlantic City for the weekend. None of us had ever really gambled before, but we were feeling lucky.

But as we wandered through the mazelike casino floor, our confidence dissipated faster than cigarette smoke. Poker was way too intimidating. Slots seemed like a hopeless long shot. Among the three of us, we know all the words to Guys and Dolls, but our collective understanding of craps consisted of "7 is good."

When faced with forking over our hard-earned, first-job cash, we didn't want to risk it.

"I don't think we're cut out for this," my friend said. "We don't have the right personality for gambling."

I wondered if she was right. Am I always this risk-averse? What do I consider a worthy gamble?

The answer came quickly.

Love.

When it comes to romance, I take my chances. Consider it high-stakes emotional poker. And what's my weakness?

Ex-boyfriends.

I always give them a second chance, or third, or fourth, to make it work. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I think, "The next time, this could really turn around."

I'd like to think I'm an optimist. But deep down, I might have the heart of a gambler.

This time last year, I made my greatest romantic gamble. I had broken up with this guy years before, and we had barely spoken since, but he had remained a little ache in my heart. After attending a friend's wedding, I was infused with enough sentimentality and champagne to fire off an e-mail telling him how I felt.

Turned out he felt the same way.

Not content to quit while I was ahead, I agreed to visit him on his military base. He's training to be a fighter pilot, dreamy uniform included.

See why it's hard for me to get over him?

I blame Tom Cruise.

All of my friends warned me the trip was a bad idea. My mom's take was a little different: "If you feel like you need to do it, do it. You can handle whatever happens."

Never bet more than you have to lose.

So I did it. I packed more cosmetic toiletries than federally allowed, and I hopped two planes to see him. We spent a week catching up and generally feeling like no time had passed. It took me all of 12 hours to fall for him again.

Before I knew it, I was all in.

But as luck would have it, on the last day, he told me it couldn't work.

If you're going to cry in a public place, an airport that serves a major military base is the place to be. Every airport employee and many passersby offered sympathetic smiles and words of comfort. The TSA employee at security even gave me a hug, though he still made me throw out my scented body lotion.

I felt guilty accepting their kindness, but I didn't have the heart to correct them that I wasn't a serviceman's sweetheart. I'd just been dumped.

But I survived. I came home to my wonderful family and friends who swallowed their I-told-you-sos and met me with support and understanding. And even while nursing a broken heart and a bruised ego, I felt satisfied. I had said the unsaid, laid my cards on the table, and taken my chance.

It was my last great gamble, a loss, and yet I'd do it over again.

With that in mind, casino games seemed like child's play.

My friends and I finally agreed that blackjack was easy enough for our comfort level. With beginner's luck, we won the first three hands. On the fourth, we were dealt a low number, 13. High off our previous wins, we decided to take our chances.

"Hit me!"

Ten of clubs. 23. We lose.

The player next to us snapped, "Why didn't you stay? The odds were against you. That was so stupid!"

The dealer, an older woman, shot the player a dirty look. Then she pointed a red-nailed finger in our direction and said, "Honey, don't listen to him. That is your hand. You go ahead and play it however you want to."

Couldn't have said it better myself.