My mom texted me a few days ago telling me to buy a lottery ticket because the jackpot was up to a billion. Well, I forgot. But the next day I saw an NPR headline that no one had won so now it is 1.2 billion. Yesterday on a break from work I went to 7-Eleven to buy a ticket. The man at the counter asked what I wanted: double play, power play, no play. And I was like, I want whatever gets me the 1.2 billion, what is that? He chuckled.
This was my first time buying my own Powerball ticket. Our parents buy us each one every Christmas. (Is this a Christmas tradition everywhere?) But I was never the one at the counter, spending my own money on a chance. I liked it–ahhhh is this the beginning of a slippery slope?–because I felt like a part of something bigger; like I belonged here, at the 7-Eleven counter, with everyone else who was here everyday, playing their luck.
They’re saying the odds are one in 292 million. So you know, they’re saying there’s a chance.
I think it feels nice to hope for something of which the loss would not be a devastation. It’s silly hope. Give me more silly hopes.
Anne Foster 