At times I find my life to be a delicate and careful dance between avoiding and embracing.
The power of a cliche rests entirely in one’s ability to dictate its presence. As an artist, a writer, a twenty-something woman, the odds are invariably stacked in favor of moments carved away by so many before that what is left feels void of any ownership. I often find myself laughing at the existential questions I ask the world as I fall asleep, and equally confident in my ability to keep them to myself when I’m both chatting and sipping a soy cappuccino among many ears in a coffee shop. It never feels good to act or speak in a manner so soundly resolved to have developed its own cliche.
Or perhaps it does. Sometimes even more powerful than embarking upon the independent, uncharted route, is to alternatively embrace that which is obvious, expected, and for these reasons, eschewed. There are moments when it feels best to surrender these stipulations toward always rising from the masses, as sometimes, what feels best of all is to give in and take one giant gulp of the kool-aide. There is a delicate dance between avoiding and embracing that which is predictable and overused, and this past weekend in Vegas makes a strong case for the latter.
Matt and I surrendered ourselves to the typical Las Vegas vacation. Atypical, I should add, was the thoughtful and romantic way he planned the trip as a last minute surprise, the mystery beginning with a mischievous smile and his instructions to “pack a swimsuit, a fancy dress, and hop in the shower” and the suspense that followed as he managed to keep our destination a secret until the final moment before boarding the plane.
We began our shotgun trip to Las Vegas with in flight bloody marys, which on account of our last minute seats being many rows apart, mine arrived a la “this was sent complements of the gentleman in 18C”. I drank it with a smile that did little justice for the amount of excitement and giddiness I felt as we flew over the canyons and approached the unmistakeable city of lights.
Upon our arrival to Las Vegas, we walked in sync with our fellow heard of vacationers, all toting a modest size weekend bag and with faces eager to succumb to the lure. Checking in to the Aria, it was entertaining to notice those checking out: sunburned with puffy eyes, wrinkled clothes, and void of any attempts to disguise the fact that the vast majority were still entirely drunk.
I threw on a sequin dress, which I later discovered was the perfect choice for this environment judging by the abundance in which they sparkled throughout our stay. We spent hours playing roulette in the casino, sipping drinks we ordered mostly for novelty (white russians and dirty martinis) but drank them nonetheless. We ate dinner at the Jean Georges steakhouse in the hotel, followed by an evening at a three story club equipped with half-dressed dancers and acrobats where coincidentally, a gentleman was standing above us on the top level and tossing copious handfuls of dollar bills into the air which fell directly at my feet. I picked them up and without any hesitation, we returned to the casino.
The next day began with a trip to the spa followed by poolside piña coladas and an afternoon at the firing range. We paid the spa one final visit before our departure, but rest assured: in true accordance with our quintessential Las Vegas experience, no amount of hot stones or himalayan sea salt could have denied our appearance the checklist of tell tale Vegas signs we so easily, and happily, fulfilled.
Now for some rest.
mollywould posted this
