When a young woman comes of age, she wants nothing more than to wear unreasonable shoes and unforgiving miniskirts all in an effort to attract men who are willing to buy her brightly colored drinks with large pieces of fruit in them. She is often successful, with feathery eyelashes batting with seductive grace, a smile so alluring and secretive it attracts even the most stoic of observers, and a gently curved figure which sways like reeds blowing in the summer breeze.
And then there is her bumbling friend haggling with the bartender over the price of a Long Island Iced Tea and squealing too loudly with joy as "Gold Digger" starts to play on the dance floor.
This is the tale of that friend.
Jessica Hits Vegas; Fails At Gambling, Wins at Life
We left for Vegas at 1:00pm on a Friday. A swerving car ride and several texts to Kelly bearing my Last Will and Testament later, we arrived at 9:30pm. Needless to say, I was ready to drink until I no longer felt the very real presence of danger. Strangely, the opposite happened.
We set off in a celebratory mood, Julia only minutes before turning 21, and as we happily bounced from the Tropicana to the Excalibur and on to the Mandalay Bay, we smiled at all of Las Vegas, which had not claimed victory over us, not yet. We entered into Rum Jungle, for the first time with all legitimate IDs, and quickly realized that not only were we the youngest people there, we were also the most interesting. Several overpriced drinks and newly acquired friends later, we dispersed into the night, a starless sky polluted by the immense sparkle of the city shrouding over us like a dark blanket promising safety in its warmth.
The next morning, with details a bit hazy, I woke up in my party dress, my ID poking out of my bra and the distinct taste of Cheez-Its lingering in my mouth. The collective summary of the group's night consisted of waking up in a Burger King bathroom stall and wandering onstage at a theater still open from that night's production of The Lion King. We awoke in generally good spirits.
A Day at the Pool Is No Day at the Beach
Defined by a failed attempt at going to Rehab (a pool party at the Hardrock Hotel), and a scorching sun only escaped by submerging into the pool at the Tropicana, the day passed in softly cooling breezes and drinks the size (and shape) of footballs. Eventually I went up to the room and missed out on all the exciting details of the illicit pool party downstairs; hence, you suffer a lack of fanciful imagery and inappropriate behavior.
We eventually dragged ourselves out of the hotel room to head over to XS at the Wynn and then to Tao at the Venetian, generously providing our cab drivers with endless water cooler material (assuming that somewhere there is a cab company that has a water cooler specifically for the purpose of comparing drunken idiot stories).
The Practice of Tao
If you love the atmosphere of an Asian brothel but don't have the money to fly across the globe, or want to dance at a club but don't want to be able to move, look no further than the Tao at the Venetian! Women dancing violently in lingerie? Check. Naked women bathing each other in decorative bathtubs and fanning each other with giant feathers in bed? No problem! Ridiculously small and overpriced drinks? Absolutely! Aside from the coolest bathrooms I've ever set foot in (glass that fogs over when you lock it! Crazy!) and a very kind bartender who made me a stronger drink for free (thanks, Ernie!), Tao was simultaneously overwhelming and underwhelming. So I guess I was just whelmed.
My feet, however, were in searing pain and I was asked on more than one occasion to put my shoes back on. Deciding to ignore that request, I was kicked out faster than Jazz at the Banks' household (AHHHH!) and we set off down the strip in search of beer pong. And beer pong we did.
After a friendly game of pong (which I lost with gusto), and no money left for a cab, we decided to walk the few miles back to the Tropicana. This resulted in a splinter in my bare foot, black soles for days, more than one person exclaiming "Girl, you need to put your shoes on," and eventually Veronica and I wearing poor Alex and Tim's shoes, respectively. We looked like toddlers in big man's shoes and they looked like unusually young pedophiles. It was worth it.
The car ride home was a breeze and as I watched Las Vegas disappear into the heat like the most brilliant of mirages, I whispered a goodnight and not a goodbye; We will meet again someday, Las Vegas, someday.
Oh, I'm going in two weeks? Well. That worked out nicely.
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