Vegas

So Vegas is pretty much on everyone's bucket list. The lights, the shows, the food, the hot people, the alcohol, the piss-soaked streets. It's a breeding ground of bad decisions and heartbreak, masked by a sensory overloaded experience, but you're mostly drunk so you don't give two rips at the time and probably don't when you get back to reality, either. You just think, "Damn, did that really happen?"

It was the perfect place for me to meet up with my siblings for a long weekend. I even found a sweet penthouse on a vacation home site, and booked it months in advance. I was so excited that I would get annoyed when my siblings didn't automatically write back to my "OMG you guys! Look what I found! VEGAS! OMG! WOO!" emails. I pictured us stumbling around from club to club, looking scandalous, and passing by doormen like we were B-list celebrities. I envisioned fancy dinners where we sat and talked with wine and laughed for hours. I'd pass out with my sister next to me in drunken fits of laughter, and perhaps she'd hold my hair while I puked. It was going to be awesome.

Then I got sick.

It was about a week before I was supposed to leave. It started with feeling hot and cold, then hot again, then cold. I'd wake up in the middle of the night with the shakes like a crack addict and I'd be drenched in sweat. I felt sorry for people in rehab. I called in sick to work (which I never do). It was as though a demon had inhabited my body and was hanging on with bright red talons. My back ached, my head ached, my hair hurt. If you've ever had a fever you know what it's like to try and function. You feel your most vulnerable and if you go out in public you're tempted to tell people you encounter, like the cashier, that you have a fever which would therefore explain your lackluster appearance, and perhaps elicit a little sympathy. This is especially nice if you're single and you have to take care of yourself.

But hell if this was going to keep me from going on that trip.

Every day that passed leading up to Vegas, I would wake up feeling just as bad if not worse than the day before. I might begin to feel a little better and I'd start fantasizing about all of the scandalous outfits I'd be running around in. Then I'd start to feel badly again, and the idea of doing the "right" thing and staying home would piss me off. I was really, really mad at my body for being vulnerable to disease. My nightstand looked like I belonged in a public nursing home. Half-empty bottles of Sprite, a few dirty dishes (mainly from takeout), icy hot, and prescription bottles were everywhere. I can only imagine how the bedroom smelled with my sweat soaking into the sheets every night. Probably like beef jerky and burnt hair.

The day of the trip finally arrived. I had been battling this thing for four days.  It was a game-time decision. I still felt like pure shit run over. My flight wasn't until later in the evening, so I kept reasoning with myself, "If this thing breaks by 3, I'll still go. That's the smart thing to do after all." Well 3 o'clock came and I found myself trembling as I put an assortment of party clothes, high heels, and my booty pop into a suitcase. Followed by my antibiotics. I was prepared.

Once in the air, I thought I was going to die. I felt like telling the flight attendant she might want to alert the pilot that someone was deathly ill on board and they'd have to land the plane and I'd be med-evaced back home. But then everyone would be pissed and I'd have ruined countless Vegas vacations. I had visions of passing out and eventually waking up with permanent brain damage. She must have thought I was quite possibly the most annoying passenger ever with the way I kept asking for ice chips like an old man. The nice lady next to me asked if I was ok. I just gritted my teeth and tried to concentrate on the in-flight movie. I think it was Thor. Did I mention I was riding bitch?

Upon landing, I found my siblings. Vegas smells like heartbreak already, so my situation felt magnified. One important fact about this trip is that it was originally supposed to be my bachelorette party. But since we all know how that shook out, we decided to go anyway and make it a "Fuck you I can still party" trip.  My brother went in for the hug and withdrew quickly, amazed at how hot I felt. I already felt like a huge liability with my emotional state, but here I was sick as well. Sorry, fam.

The next 48 hours after checking into the pimp penthouse suite were sort of a blurry mix of room service, cold baths, staring out the window at all the lights and people having fun below. Assholes. I spent most of my time in a bathrobe. No hookers and cocaine. There was a marathon of "The Godfather" on TBS so that helped. My siblings were torn between wanting to go out and party and not wanting to leave me in the room to find me dead or worse, crying into my cold bath. I felt bad about their feeling bad about my feeling bad.

Finally, on the last day of my trip, my fever broke. I was more excited to be able to go out on my last night than I was to be feeling better. Hell, with the antibiotics, getting drunk was going to be a breeze (not to mention another good decision). So that was a silver lining.

I got all dusted up for the first time in a week. I felt pretty good. Being sick makes you lose weight, so I like the way my top looked on me. I had makeup on and didn't look like a crack addict with bad hair. Finally, I was getting my swerve back and I hadn't passed away from an inexplicable disease. This was cause for celebration. We ended up at Tao, in some dude's VIP section, and as payment I had to dance with his not-so-good-looking brother. I suppose he was a Marine because he kept asking if I was married and that as a Marine, apparently married women are general cause for concern. I just told him that nope I wasn't married, that I was a good 10 years older than him, and that he must be hot in that full suit he was wearing. Then he left me alone.

All in all, the night was a success. I did get to stumble down the streets with my siblings like I had dreamed of. I was happy to be alive. I had even done a few shots. Woo. The next day, getting to the airport and on my flight was a bit of a challenge, but the hangover felt NOTHING like the illness I had just beat. It was good to feel a different kind of bad.

Finally, I board the plane. I paid extra for an "economy plus" ticket - and it was anything but more legroom. I realize I'm riding bitch again, but this time, I'm stuck between some Harry Potter looking dude and "Deliverance" wearing a trench coat, a big hat, dirty jeans and flip flops. He. Was. HUGE. I very reluctantly squeezed into my seat. I tried to politely put down my arm rest on Deliverance's side, but he was havin' none of THAT. After about 2 minutes, I guess he couldn't take it anymore and raised it back up. Great dude - there goes my seat recline button. I'm not exaggerating when I say he was half-way in my seat the entire flight home. I would have almost wished for a fever again instead of finding myself in that sitch. Ok not really. I thought of all the ways I was going to complain to United about paying more money just to be stuck next to Wild West Meets Oversized Dirty Hippy.

But then I realized that I was just happy to be alive, that I didn't end up in the ER in Vegas. Although that would have been one helluva blog post.

My first blog post EVAR

I've always made fun of people who blog. To me, it seems like an over-the-top way of putting your average life on display for bored people to click through, and I've gotten really turned off by people who reply with, "Oh it's in the blog" when I ask a question about the kids or some other topic that is common in most it's-been-too-long convos. When did we stop talking to each other?! Oh right - when Facebook became so popular that even your gin-sipping granny has an account and comments on your status in a way that completely takes your sarcasm seriously. Mine happens to be a status-update ruiner, but that's a topic for another blog post.

So I've recently become single. After about four years. I'm not going into the details about why the relationship failed, but I'd like to think that I handled it with as much grace and dignity as possible (if you don't count the time I called him piss-drunk and told him I was sleeping in his t-shirt and begged him to come back). But I didn't key any cars. I didn't show up at his doorstep in the middle of the night. He's not taking out a restraining order. So all in all, I'd say I was a successful dumpee. I've pat myself on the back.

Let's be honest; being dumped sucks ass. Initially afterward, you get that gut-wrenching feeling that keeps you from being able to eat like a healthy person, so you lose weight and people comment on how good you look (not a terrible thing actually). Sleep is elusive and you have a talk with your brain about how important it is that you can get up in the morning. HAHA - yeah right! No sleep for you! - Brain. Mornings are the worst, as you dredge your sleep-deprived, depressed self out of bed, will one foot in front of the other and take a look in the mirror. Your face is tear-stained and you probably have sheet marks on your face. Your hair looks like a bird's nest from tossing and turning all night. You are probably hungover and your breath smells like hamster poop. You look pathetic. That jerk was right to leave; who is ever going to love this "thing" staring at you in the mirror? Sigh. You reluctantly turn on the shower to start your day when you'd rather punch yourself in the face.

After you are finally presentable, you race out the door because you are probably running late for work. Doing laundry has taken a backseat (from being drunk every night and surfing the internet obsessively), so your outfit might look as if it's come out of the hamper and you have bags under your eyes. You look and feel awesome and confident. You're gonna kick this day's ass.

Your next task is getting through the workday. After showing up a few minutes late to work, you're already wishing you could keep a bottle of liquor in your drawer. Normally, your boss considers you a top performer with your razor-sharp concentration, your put-together appearance, and your punctuality. Not anymore.  Clearly, something has happened. Maybe you caught AIDS.  If you're on g-chat (which most people are at work unless you're over 35), it's especially tough because you probably see your ex in your list of "friends" and reaching out to them is just a tiny, innocent click away that wouldn't count as contact (right?). But, you're good and you resist and you pat yourself on the back again. You're the best dumpee ever and you can't wait to tell your friends that you aren't a stalker.

Facebook is another daily challenge. You try and make it look as if you're having the time of your life and being dumped is the best thing that ever happened to your awesome self. You can't wait to tag yourself in all the awesome places you're out eating at with all the most awesome friends who are so cool. Your life online has suddenly made you the most awesome and fun-loving person and people probably think you don't even have time to crap with all the awesome fun you're having. Especially your ex. With every awesome update, you get smug thinking they're probably regretting dumping the most awesome person to ever happen to them.

Then comes night-time. You hope to God you have plans, because sitting at home sucks big time and you don't want to get drunk alone and think about your ex. But, this happens a lot anyway. After all, unfortunately for you, your friends have other lives outside of your breakup and can't hold your hand
every minute of every day. You put your unwashed sweat pants back on. You've worn them every night for a week. You smell-test a shirt off the floor and put that on too. Luckily, you had the motivation to stop by the gas-station and get a cheap bottle of white wine. This is an accomplishment, as it means you did something other than go to work.

Another positive thing is you have Bachelor Pad and Teen Mom on the DVR. Your night is about to fly by with entertainment. You also found some macaroni n' cheese. This makes you temporarily happy, as everyone knows that white wine goes with mac n' cheese. Does this make you sophisticated?

After your shows wrap up and you're starting to pass out from the cheap wine, you think - tomorrow is another day. Even though today was about as fun as sitting at the DMV sandwiched between two smelly illegals with a four-hour wait, you did it.

Look at you, still livin' n' shit.