On the last morning in Vegas, again we got up ridiculously early. Again we drank coffee and ate banana bread. It took us a dreadfully long time to get ready and pack up all of our shit. It took us even longer to get our brains functioning well enough to decide where to eat.
My last meal in Vegas was a fucking amazing burger and fries. It was the Nom Nom Burger, and it came with cheddar cheese, thousand island dressing, and potato chips. I added pickles because, pickles.
Go big or go home is what I always say. Or, in this case, I went big and then went home. (And downed a bottle of Pepto.)
On our way to the airport, completely sleep-deprived and
massively slightly hungover, one of my friends told a (non-Vegas) story of sadness and regret. At one point in the story, she said, “I guess hindsight is 50/50.”
We all let that sentence hang in the air for a bit. It might have hurt our brains to think about it too much. Finally, the birthday girl said, “Wait. You mean hindsight is 20/20, right?” And we all burst out cry-laughing.
After we caught our breath, another friend countered, “Actually hindsight is about 50/50 when you think about it.” Another round of cry-laughter. She spoke the truth.
After we checked in for our flights and made it through security (I may have been dancing and chanting, “Dance it out! Dance it out!” while winding through that line), I headed straight to find coffee. Of course. And to pick up a few gifts for my kids.
While waiting to board the plane, I played some Keno for my Grandma. (I lost all of her money.) Of course, I had to ask the slot machine attendant how to actually make the machine play Keno. Did you know those modern machines can play multiple games? Amazing!
And did I mention that I have no idea how to play Keno? Luckily, it has a “quick pick” option and a very easy-to-use “Bet Maximum” button. My friend had to point those out for me, or I would have sat there staring blankly at the screen for a while.
And then I flew home and
collapsed settled back into my regular life. The one that doesn’t include dancing and drinking all night long while acting ridiculous with your friends. I barely made it through the kids’ bedtime routines and into my own comfy bed. And now, three days later, I’m still sore and tired. Which brings me back to the question: how old is too old to go to Las Vegas and pretend you’re 21? Well, your answer may differ, but for me, it seems to be 40.
40 is too old for that shit. Should I have stayed home? Should I have politely declined the trip and sent flowers instead? Should I have missed out on all of the fun?
No fucking way. I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. But, then again, hindsight is 50/50.