Now, before you send the mob after me, please let me explain.
I’m really, truly old. I blame this discovery on Vegas.
I’d looked forward to this Vegas bash for months and it was finally upon us. My friends and I arrived at the airport around lunchtime and saddled up to the bar to toast to our good friend who would be turning the big 4-0 the next day. The drinks flowed through our first leg of the trip and into the second. I was six drinks deep by the time we actually touched down in Vegas (which just happened to be happy hour).
The party continued through the early evening as we waited on other friends to arrive to the big city. We gambled and ordered ‘free’ drinks like it was our only night in town. Dinner came around 9:00. I ordered a bottle of wine since that is what you do in Vegas. The bottle was empty by the time we left.
The first sign of my oldness came about around midnight. The birthday boy wanted to be in a club when the clock struck 12 for his birthday. We waited in line as the minutes passed and made it inside just under the hour. My best friends and I looked around, surveyed the situation, and then promptly turned around and left.
It was one of the most horrible places I’ve ever been. I couldn’t move. I could hear my heart vibrating through my chest. As a dancer, you probably assume that I enjoy the club scene and I thought I did; just not that particular club. I never wanted to see that place again.
Our brief stint in the club guided us back to the casino but I could already tell that my conscious time was limited. I stared into my red wine and calculated that I had been drinking for approximately 15 hours. I stared at my friends who still had fire dancing in their eyes as they poured their money into the flashy machines. Without a word, I backed away slowly and escaped to the solace of my hotel room.
I slept a blissful 6 hours before awakening refreshed and minus one hell of a hangover. My friends sad attempts at chastising me for my swift escape the prior evening fell on deaf ears. They could do Vegas their way. I would do it mine.
The next two nights ended up much the same way. My Vegas consisted of sitting by the pool and drinking Rum Runners one after the other until my skin was the color of a beautiful lobster. I would then switch to wine, eat dinner with friends, and go to bed at a respectable hour.
You see, when I say I’m old, there is no need to roll your eyes that far into your brain. I mean no insult. I like being old. Being old to me means not acting like a crazy 20-something. Being old to me means I didn’t come home married, I didn’t get arrested, and I didn’t make out with some weirdo at the club. Being old to me is not staying up until the crack of dawn only to lose half your day to a sleep-filled hangover.
Being old to me is awesome. I’ll be old in Vegas any day of the week.
Awesomeness Awaits at Yeah Write!