At the risk of upsetting a lot of people, I'm going to write about something that has been on my mind since I said goodnight to my obsessive compulsive friend yesterday, Bingo fanatics frighten me.
For the second time I have come home a nervous wreck with various color dobber ink all over my palms and finger tips. I'm convinced I'm doing something wrong. How is it that these 44 year old eyes can not scan two - yes, that's right two - sheets of Bingo numbers when the 97 year old woman sitting beside me can follow ten easily? I twitch and shake in my torn up, rubber chair as the heavier, younger lady who plays three days out of four sits comfortably on her rubber inflatable. I'm completely distracted and can't remember if the letter "I" comes before the letter "N" due to the hacking, coughing, chain smoking, oxygen-taking gentleman at the end of the table. They're all plotting against me. And my friend? Oh, she's no better. She pretends not to notice any of them. She chats pleasantly keeping my mind off the game. She secretly does this because she knows that I'm a Bingo loser and she'll have a greater chance at winning the big progressive jackpot if I can't concentrate on the numbers. Well, she won't next time, dammit! Next time I'll be better. Next time I'll be more focused. I'll buy one of those stupid inflatables. No, better yet - a seat cushion...yes! I'll show them! I'm going to be a Bingo winner.
Uh oh...I totally get it now. Hi, my name is Bri Potts and I'm addicted to Bingo.