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A dear friend of mine used to claim that everyone had someone in his or her past for whom he or she would abandon everything — partner, job, home — if that person would only show up with a pair of airline tickets and an ultimatum. (The party game variation was to try to figure out who Mr./Ms. X was in any given case.)

I always hated that game.

I didn’t like how it suggested that relationships were a series of weighted compromises, or worse, that we’re all living in that damned Fleetwood Mac song.

I understand the lure of what-might-have-been. Sometimes I wonder what might have happened in this circumstance or that if I’d been less of a jerk. But not often. Because however many bad decisions I’ve made, however many regrets I have, I’ve managed somehow to stumble in a circumstance that I wouldn’t dream of trading for whatever’s behind the proverbial “Door Number Two.”

Or put another way: when your hand is full of aces, you really don’t need to go fish. You just need to count your lucky stars. Trouble is, I try, but I just can’t count that high.

(This is a companion piece of sorts to Happy Meetiversary over at Editrix’s site.)

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