I spent last weekend in Vegas celebrating two of my closest friends’ 40th birthdays. I should preface this by saying that I hate Vegas. HATE. IT. But I love these women so I’d do just about anything for them. (Unless it involves clowns. I hate clowns. Even more than I hate Vegas.) And we’ve been planning (and saving for) this trip for over a year.
I’ll cut right to the ending. No one got arrested. No one did anything that she regrets. (At least that we remember.) We ate too much. We drank too much. We acted ridiculous and danced like we were in our 20s. We had a really fabulous time, actually. But as I sit here with my pinched shoulder nerve, my sprained wrist, my slightly-out-of-whack digestive system, and my sleep deprivation, I’m asking myself the question, “How old is too old to go to Vegas and pretend you’re 21?”
Before I can answer that question, I need to review some highlights from the weekend. Think of it as a lawyer building her case. A scientist collecting data. Or just me lamenting how old I feel.
The afternoon we arrived in Vegas, we checked into the hotel and immediately settled into the suites. And by that, I mean we set up the bar. Priorities.
Several of us had also brought snacks with us (can you tell we’re moms?) so no one would go hungry that afternoon or evening. So we set up the snack bar too. After lunch and a review of the itinerary for the weekend, some of the girls headed out to get their make-up done. I opted for a nap. Again, priorities.
That evening, we started our celebrations with
a shit-ton of some drinks in the suite. Over conversations of the Grammys and popular music in general, I realized how woefully “out of it” I am when it comes to mainstream music. The other girls made fun of me because I didn’t know who any singers were or what they sang. (I only recognized one Bruno Mars song.) And then, as I was defending my taste in music, I couldn’t actually remember the name of my favorite singer. After 5 minutes of deep concentration, I had to text my husband to get the singer’s name. (It’s Mat Kearney.)
As a thank you to Mr. Foxy (and a little jab that I was in Vegas and he was not), I took a picture of my champagne and sent it to him:
He texted back, “I like the coffee in the background.”
Shit. I hadn’t even realized my coffee (double-tall non-fat latte, actually) was in the picture. It was a such necessity—kinda like the air I was breathing—that I hadn’t realized I was consuming it. But it was only 8 pm, and I was already tired. I needed fuel to make it through the night.
The fabulous birthday girls put together gift bags for all of the attendees. So lovely of them, but also slightly revealing.
Wet ones? Visine? Advil? Tissue? Yes, clearly we’re moms. Yes, we’re all over 40. The reality of this stings a little, but at least we have chocolate to console us. These items were going to be put to good use.
That first night we went out dancing. At 10 pm. 10 PM. I’m usually passed out on my couch drooling on a pillow while my husband watches a show that we thought would be fun to watch together but I fell asleep again so he can’t delete it from the DVR until I stay awake long enough to watch the episode and that could take weeks.
So at 10 pm, we arrived at the club. The birthday girl had arranged for table service which sounds fabulous and VIPish, and it was. But what it really meant for me was that I could be lazy on a couch and not have to fetch any drinks at the bar. (High heels hurt, y’all.)
We drank and danced. And drank and danced some more. The cocktail waitress called us all “Baby.” We stayed out way too late, couldn’t find our way out of the club, had to walk down thousands of stairs, and then conveniently landed in pizza heaven. We bought a ton of pizza, and then we ate a ton pizza at 3 in the morning back at our suite. It’s possible I fell asleep in my chair. Fortunately, I remembered to take out my contact lenses before I collapsed in bed.
Will one crazy night be the end of me? Or can more naps save me? Read about Day 2 and find out.