My boyfriend recently treated me to a trip to Vegas for my forty-fifth birthday. It reminded me of the excitement I felt when I got my first apartment at nineteen. I was gonna throw tons of crazy parties with all of my fabulous friends. It would be a wild and epic undertaking- one for the ages. The only problem was, I wasn’t old enough to buy booze and the harder to fix problem- I had no friends; much less those of the fabulous variety.
I was delusional back then and it seems, still delusional twenty six years later.
Let me explain- our first night in Vegas should’ve been hot, boozy and fun. In reality, I had a meltdown that made tissues of the utmost importance and birth control irrelevant. See, we’d had some hiccups along the way from Denver to Las Vegas: It took us over half an hour to find a parking spot at DIA, we spent thirty minutes on the tarmac at the McCarran airport because another plane was at our gate, it took an hour to get our luggage from the carousel because they couldn’t seem to decide which one to put it on, when we got to the hotel they didn’t have our room available, so it got switched to a different room, when we finally got to said room it was all-white and very plain (ugly), and we were hangry- very hangry.
I panicked when I ran out of water (staying hydrated gives me a sense of control over my life), only to realize the bottled water in our hotel room cost $22 each! Luckily, there was a shop downstairs that had the same water for only $6/bottle- still ridiculous, but feasible.
We went out in search of some fancy Vegas cuisine, only to find ourselves dejectedly stumbling into a loud sports bar. There were nice restaurants nearby, but we didn’t know where they were and given our protein bars had worn off six hours ago, we didn’t have the energy to forge on. At least this place had gluten-free pizza crust, with slices that collapsed under the weight of ham, pineapple and far too much cheese (fuck it).
When we entered our seventies, minimalist-retro albino oasis, I sat down on the less than comfortable couch and my emotional fortress crumbled. I went on about how I’m not any good at partying- confessing that even one night of a splurge dinner and drinks, gives me crippling anxiety. Seriously, there’s a voice in my head that admonishes me endlessly for allowing such poisons into my meatsuit temple. I can only get rid of this voice that assures me I’m committing slow-suicide when I assure myself that I will eat only organic, grass-fed, free range blah blah blah for the next several days…and live at the gym. Then I inevitably toss and turn all night getting twenty to thirty minutes of sub-par rest, rendering me all but useless the next day.
In addition to my Debbie Downer approach to celebrating, was the fact that I knew my boyfriend would be sleeping on the couch, and not with me. I am a light sleeper, and he is a heavy snorer- a match made in slumber hell. This was our first all-night sleepover and I had yet to reconcile that this amazing, caring, sweet man who had splurged on a five star hotel, wouldn’t even be sleeping on the bed. I had offered to sleep on the couch, but he wouldn’t allow it, because he’s amazing.
Turns out, he was perfectly aware and accepting of not only my crazy, but also my requirements to actually get some sleep while on our getaway. He also admitted he wasn’t a fan of the room decor either, which allowed me to replace my guilt with some much needed humor about the whole situation- the marbled bathroom was quite lovely, btw.
The next couple days were actually a lot of fun! We went to the shark reef at Mandalay Bay, had some great meals at the House of Blues, ate some delicious, over-priced steak at Rao’s, attended a Cirque Du Soleil show at Treasure Island, savored some chocolate mint martinis at the Chocolate Bar, gambled the slots for fifteen minutes, discovered this amazing, sexy speakeasy lounge, took tons of pictures of the Luxor and Ceasar’s Palace and walked until our feet reminded us we’re too old for this shit.
The flight back was a bit brutal. It left at one am on Sunday; we’d arrived Thursday evening. By the time we got home, we hadn’t slept in twenty four hours. But it was worth it. If it was a test, then we passed. We didn’t kill each other and we didn’t break up.
Honestly, I love him more than ever- because not only did he handle my crazy, but he found a way to convince me that I’m worth it. So bring on the next adventure- I’ll be sure to bring extra tissues and way more snacks!