One Day in Vegas, This Happened…
I’m going to Vegas this weekend on a girlfriend getaway and I have two main emotions about it. Super excited and a little bit scared.
My fear is not just from the fact that my girlfriends and I are driving there. (Sigh – somewhere between Vegas and San Diego on Memorial Day we’re going to bemoan the fact that we thought a road trip would be fun while we’re stuck in inevitable bumper to bumper traffic and wonder why we didn’t fly.) No, I’m scared because I’m not sure I know how to do Vegas as a 30-year old, engaged woman.
Last time I went to Vegas, I was 26, a few months after a horrible, destructive relationship, and that year was a bit of a wild, crazy, let loose, party girl time for me. Vegas, of course, only fueled that.
Last time I went to Vegas resulted in the only time in my life I woke up and had no idea where I was.
Not as bad as it sounds. Seriously. The night started out innocent enough. Friday night of our Vegas weekend resulted in staying up the whole night and losing one quarter of our girl power on Saturday night due to a bad hangover.
The three of us who remained ended up at Jet. In typical single girls fashion we started talking to some guy in line who led us to a VIP table once we got in and poured us a drink. Not a bad start to the night.
However, I became curious about the table next to ours. There were a bunch of guys, but one in particular caught my attention. I knew him. I just had no idea from where.
So, being the confident 26-year-old I was then, I went up to him.
“Hi, I’m Gina,” I said. “I know you.” I unabashedly held out my hand.
“I’m Dave and I know you too,” the guy responded as he shook my hand. He was cute with a round face and dusty brown hair. “Do you know how?”
I laughed. “No! I was hoping you would.”
While we pondered over that fact, he poured me another drink from his table of VIP goodness and as I sipped it he asked where I was from.
“Well, I live in San Diego right now, but I’m from Minnesota,” I replied.
A slow dawning of recognition slowly spread across his face.
“You’re from Minnesota?!” He exclaimed. “That’s it. You know Cee!”
Cee was one of my college roommates and I looked at the guy with a new familiarity. “Oh my gosh, of course! We met that one summer at Cee’s cabin!” That one summer had been five years earlier. He had gone to high school with Cee and they had been good friends. How could I forget?
He immediately gestured over one of his friends, a broad-shouldered, blonde, friendly-looking fellow.
“She went to college with Cee!”
The new guy, Tim, who also went to high school with Cee, thought this was so awesome it deserved more vodka poured into our glasses.
The night continued with my girls and I giggling away in the VIP lounge with our new friends (Cee had been texted and she told our two new friends to take good care of us). At one point in the night Tim and I figured out we had also met a few years before when I’d been to Vegas with Cee. This realization meant more vodka – mixed with redbull. This was before I realized redbull-vodkas are pure evil and banned myself from drinking them.
They did. Such good care in fact that they drove us back to their place – Tim lived in Vegas; Dave was visiting. This was also despite the fact that my friends and I were staying on the strip resulting in me waking up on my friend Lis’ leg on a white couch in a room with white ceiling, walls, and carpet. I was in some bright, white jail.
I pulled myself up groggily and squinted at Lis and then over at my other girlfriend curled up by herself on the other couch. Some random guy was asleep on the floor. A staircase led up to the second-floor. We were actually in a pretty nice-looking house. Ok, so not a jail. Lis felt me moving and half-opened her eyes to look at me.
“Where are we?” I muttered and ran my hand through my tangled mop of day-old hairsrayed hair.
“Don’t you remember coming here? We’re at your Minnesota boy’s house because you insisted the night had to keep going because you were having so much fun and we were with awesome people from Minnesota,” she said matter-of-factly. I frowned.
“Don’t worry,” she said sleepily, “I kept one arm around each of you the entire night. Nothing happened and we all passed out.” I immediately recalled she wasn’t drunk the night before and wanted to kiss her for having the good sense to stay sober. I really needed to stop drinking redbull vodkas.
“We should go,” I said. It was Sunday and we had to check out of our hotel room in a few hours.
Leaving ended up being easier said than done.
Dave ended up being the random guy on the floor. He offered to drive us back to the hotel in P’s car, but his keys were in his bedroom with him and he slept with the door locked. I took the initiative to knock. And knock.
Apparently he was a deep sleeper.
After about ten minutes of knocking – and one break – Tim finally woke up. He groggily stared at me and I could tell he was just as confused to see me as I was to be waking up in his house. I explained we needed his keys.
“I’ll drive, hold on,” he muttered.
20 minutes later the boys were treating us to McDonald’s breakfast. Ah, I love Midwest men. And Cee was correct – they did take good care of us. As I bit into my ham and egg biscuit sandwich I looked across the table at Dave and marveled at the fact that I had run into him the night before.
And that is why Vegas is simply magical.
But still, I did wake up not knowing where I was. Vegas got just as crazy as the commercials promised.
But. It. Was. So. Much. Fun.
But that kind of fun can’t happen anymore. For one, if I drink that much now, I’m guaranteed a three-day hangover that may or may not involve the toilet. Much to my annoyance, it’s true about the whole “once you turn 30 your hangovers start to get worse and longer”.
Secondly, thirty means I like my sleep. In a bed.
And thirdly, most importantly, flirting and drinking with strangers and almost-strangers has lost its appeal for me now that I have Tom. I still like dancing and hanging out with my girls and I most definitely enjoy a good drink, but the other stuff? Meh, I can leave it now.
Then there’s the whole the-clubs-don’t-open-til-ten thing. I can barely stay up to watch a movie on Friday nights lately. I’m supposed to be partying for three days straight this weekend? My body already feels exhausted just thinking about it.
What if I’m too old and boring for Vegas now? Am I too the point where Vegas is just going to seem annoying and obnoxious? Or even worse – maybe it’ll still seem exotic and alluring, but I won’t be able to keep up?
Then I remember, it’s Vegas. Vegas. It’s the playground for adults. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s that I’m now an adult – not so sure about that when I was 26. I’m going to Vegas. And the excitement that Vegas typically illicits starts to bubble up and I can’t wait to be lounging by the pool and dancing up a storm with some of my favorite ladies.
And Tom said if a guy really wants to buy me a drink despite the rock on my finger, I should let him. More money to put toward the wedding.
Haha, honey. Not falling for that test.
Thanks for reading Fear and Remembering in Las Vegas
