I enjoy gambling.
I enjoy drinking (too much if the situation means no kids, and no consequences beyond kissing the floor for cold spots due to a hangover).
I enjoy the rush at work being under a deadline, or necessary project.
I enjoy porn like every married suburban dad who manages to see exactly one female a day his age except at his usual 9 to 5.
Is there an addiction? Men's Health magazine quiz suggest I won't cheat on my wife and not a thrill seeker, yet I'm supposed to avoid Vegas? What could possibly happen there? End up in a wheelchair and black out a couple of miles from my hotel room after drinking too much?
This weekend is set for the guys, cards, booze, and golf. No 4:30am wake up calls. No spousal support to tell me that I'm a terrible driver at every stop light for five miles straight. Just eight guys wanting to smoke a few cigars around a bonfire while imbibing upon ice cold drinks and tales of the days before our wives shot human beings out of their vaginas.
Am I selfish for wanting these types of weekends? Am I selfish for wanting sex more times a month then Dane Cook actually cracks a joke worth laughing to? Is it escapism? No, I enjoy the company of my wife, love all of her, despite her obliviousness to my needs (except one, she's awesome about knowing how I enjoy seeing ya'll). My kids I would die for then come back again to protect them from ever learning how to play Pot Limit Omaha.
But there's an itch. An itch that only gets scratched by letting go. Blogger trips scratch this itch better a $250 an hour erotic personal massager with a happy ending. The locales I've been to may seem day-to-day for some, but for a guy in the suburbs that's locked away from life being created on the streets or near a lesbian bar daily, the trips become memories to be recalled for years to come (at least whatever brain cells survive the alcoholic Normandy invasion).
Maybe some day I'll be able to write about perfect balance between the action seeker and dad-of-the-year. For now there's life to be played out wherever my size 13s take me. A departure gate, a bar in a different state, a bedroom with plastic food toys and smell of a needed diaper change, an office with pictures lining the walls of persons close to me, a back porch with a sweating beer in hand outlooking the unfinished backyard.
For now, there's smirk of happiness, mixed with the itch of needing more. Balance could already be here and I don't even realize it.