The valet did not bat an eye at my beat-up old pickup, efficiently noting the smashed-in bumper and various other cosmetic travesties on the damage card. I do not regret complimentary valet, which always makes you feel like a boss, even when you don't have power steering. Why do you need so many lumens that you render the tiny, twisty, two-lane highway completely impossible for oncoming drivers to see even with your brights off? Eventually, my 1987 Jeep Comanche emerged into the casino's massive, brightly lit valet area. I regret driving in general, because of what fossil fuels are doing to the environment, but especially driving in the age of aggressively bright headlights. I regret navigating Highway 202 in the midst of an exceptionally eerie fog. Despite having lived in Washington my entire life, despite the ubiquitous casino ads featuring well-dressed, impossibly happy white people cavorting in an atmosphere of bedazzled luxury, casinos have always seemed like the pastime of the suburban working class, a population that us city slickers are apparently dangerously out of touch with.
I regret that I'd never visited one of our state's Native American gambling establishments until a few weeks ago.
