This past weekend I took a little trip to Las Vegas for a friend’s birthday. Although I think we celebrated more so as if the Apocalypse were approaching. Which, I suppose it is. Sorry to get so real so early in this post.
I have a love/hate relationship with trips to Vegas because on one hand, they are amazing. And when the fatigue wears off, your brain can finally remind you of hilarious things that happened. It’s like a gift that keeps giving. But, then on the other hand, that fatigue never fully wears off until your next trip to Vegas. The recovery from a weekend trip to Vegas is almost double the length of your actual time in Vegas. This is not so much observation as a stone hard fact. Anyway, the point of this post is not to explain what the aftermath of every trip to Vegas is like but to tell you how I (tried to) handled mine.
You all might be aware that I do not travel well. Unless I’m traveling by car and only if I’m driving. I get antsy and frantic when I have to fly. Which is never actually visible on my face or in my actions. I look more like a non-chalant zombie than a person with a fear of flying. My anxiety extends past being on planes and includes being in airports. Which made it unfortunate that I had to spend almost 4x the length of my flight in the Las Vegas airport.
Because I wanted to spend my money on bloody marys in Vegas, I took the cheapest flight back to LA, conveniently scheduled for 10:20pm. Because my friends’ flight was at 8:40, I went to the airport with them at 6:30 and because I didn’t want to entertain myself alone for 4 hours I stayed with them at their gate, which was in a different terminal. It was pleasant sitting on the floor outside of their gate, eating a personal Pizza Hut pizza. It was an extra special treat considering we spent the excess time after our hotel check-out and before leaving for the airport searching for a place to sit. The sudden and out of place rainstorm took away our best option of sitting at the pool. So we flopped over a closed craps table under a covered patio and drank six cups of water.
Getting to their terminal was a breeze but when it was time to part ways, my Vegas fatigue had hit a sassy plateau and getting to my terminal was a stressful, sweaty nightmare. Looking back, the route from their Southwest gate to my Delta gate was up an escalator, around a corner and through a door. But at the time I asked five. FIVE. TSA guards where to go. That’s almost a TSA guard every ten feet. I should mention I had lost my voice and asking anyone for anything, let alone complicated (turns out not that complicated) directions, was a major struggle.
By the time I finally boarded the plane the trip was catching up to me. I didn’t have patience to watch the 13-year-old girls giggle and crane their necks to see Randy Jackson in first class. Randy Jackson, really? I didn’t have any patience for the woman swaggering down the aisle and stopping to ask the flight attendant at row 15 if row 25 was towards the back. No, bitch, plane aisles are in alphabetical order. OF COURSE IT’S TOWARDS THE BACK. And I most certainly did not have patience for the kid sitting next to me to immediately fall asleep slumped over, only to have each movement of the plane send his body over our dividing armrests and basically in my lap. But did I do anything about any of these things? No, of course not. I did what I always do. I sat in my seat and prayed the plane didn’t crash.
I’m going to Colorado tomorrow for a ten-day free for all in the clean mountain air. And by 'free for all' I mean I’m crossing my fingers for an extra few days to work on getting my voice back. I’m sure I’ll have something fantastic to share when I get back OR while I’m there? Who knows, who knows.
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