My husband and I recently took a two day getaway to Vegas. I was so stoked, who doesn’t love Vegas? It has the label of “Sin City” for a reason—it’s a guaranteed GREAT TIME!
After being married for 8 years and never taking a vacation together, I willingly snatched up an invite we received for a free two-night stay at one of the new hotels.
I packed all my “cute clothes” (i.e. pants that have an actual zipper) and even packed not one, but two dresses. The night before we departed, I even hopped in a Mystic spray-tanning booth. I did ‘Mystic Tan’ incorrectly and ended up having to go back through once more—so I was a few too many shades of orange, but nonetheless.; I really went all out.
I fucking packed JEWELRY. A spray tan + jewelry= A woman who means serious business.
The last time I visited Vegas was nearly a decade ago. I was 22, I danced on table tops, stayed up until 5:00AM, gambled all my money away, and flashed someone my left boob.
While I wasn’t anticipating this Vegas experience to mirror the one I had nearly a decade ago (meaning, I wasn’t going to flash any boob—maybe), I was anticipating the same level of excitement. Vegas is fun for all ages after all, right?
My husband and I arrived to our hotel and immediately ran upstairs to change into our swimsuits. We were planning to hop in the pool and order margaritas at the swim-up bar and enjoy our two day, child-less status in alcohol-induced serenity.
I tossed my Target swimsuit on and the two of us gleefully ran downstairs. As we waited in line to go through “Pool Security,” I noticed a group of women dancing to the beat of the DJ. For a quick moment, I thought we were at a nude pool. Upon closer inspection, as we waited in the security line-up, I realized it wasn’t a nude pool, per say. It was just a pool that welcomed women in barely there “bikinis.”
“That’s cool. I’m down with swimsuit variation. Hell, I’m even down with nudists! I am pretty sure my own child is well on her way to becoming a nudist; I can hang..” I thought to myself.
I sat in my Target swimsuit and watched this particular group of women’s dance moves. I quickly realized I am no longer as flexible in my 30’s as I was in my 20’s. I then took note that certain dance moves in minimal bikini’s can lead to some unimaginable sights. I am abut 99% certain I saw one woman’s uterus. But hey, good for her and her impressive flexibility.
Before we knew it, it was our turn to be frisked at security. I must have raised a red flag in my old lady Target swimsuit. They stopped us and searched my purse and we were told we were not allowed to enter.
Apparently, in Vegas, an Altoid can be some form of hidden drug and/or a Vicks throat lozenge can be a concoction of Little Wayne’s infamous Sizzurp in hardened form. I know my Target swimsuit was screaming “I AM UP TO PARTAAYYYYY!! Who has some MOLLY!?” Right. Not really. I don’t even know what “Molly” is other than the dog of a friend I know.
“It must be my Target swimsuit..” I said to my husband.
“Yeah, you should have stopped at Strippers R’ Us and really made an effort, Ashley.” he responded.
“HA. Fuck off. Hold up, can you hold my purse full of MDMA and cocaine while I slip my moo moo back on?”
Before I knew it, we were seated at a bar after being denied from the “cool kids party.” The bar tender asked what we wanted to drink and I asked him for whatever senior citizens order as I slumped over the bar.
I told him how the pool booted us, well, really never even let us in because of my bag of apparent drugs/Altoids. He said that’s normal—people hide all types of weird shit in weird places and in weird forms.
I felt old just not even thinking of that. I mean, airport security I totally understand, but pool security? Altoid security?
I sipped on my old lady drink and my husband tried to cheer me up by suggesting we go play Wheel of Fortune slot machines, side by side.
“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? WHEEL OF FORTUNE? AFTER THIS? WHEEL OF FORTUNE IS FOR OLD PEOPLE!” I screeched back…
…And then I solemnly walked over to play. I secretly love Wheel of Fortune, but there was no way in Hell I was admitting that in that moment. I was just a far cry away from a round of Bingo…which I also love…
We visited a couple restaurants where I ate my heart out; I mean really, at that point, what else was I going to do?
We saw a show, which I wore a dress to and that made me feel better. Until I got cold and went into a little old lady shop and bought a clearance coral jacket to go with my black dress and heels that mirrored the average pair of a 90-year-old’s Naturalizer’s footwear at Sunday mass.
Overall? Visiting Vegas gave me a wake-up call. I can no longer “hang”. Three drinks and my husband was dragging me by Dr. Scholl’s feet to the elevator, losing $80.00 at blackjack gave me rage instead of the urge to pull another $20 from the ATM. The idea of hitting up the buffet sounded far more appealing than waiting in the latest night-club line up.
It all came to me when we were packing up to leave; my husband asked me: “Did you have a good time?” I told him: “Yes, it was awesome spending time together and eating so much that I need to wear my stretchy pants on the flight home. And, hey, can we ask reception at check-out what type of beds they have in this hotel? This was the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept on. And, don’t forget to steal the toiletries in the bathroom!”
I surrender, Vegas. I am not 22 anymore. Comfortable mattresses and stolen toiletries are far more exciting to me than the hottest new DJ spinnin’ at “da club.”
Thanks for the reality check.
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