Hi, I’m a freak. July 18, 2007

I was going to slap up a couple of photos from Vegas (“photos from your nose down,” as Molly put it, referring to my desire to remain anonymous on this here site) and call it a post. However, my new work computer and I have not yet made nice and he (I’ve decided it’s a he – a stubborn, obstinate, hateful he who likes to rob me of internet every so often just to show me WHO IS IN CHARGE ‘ROUND HERE, LITTLE LADY) refuses to acknowledge my camera when I connect via USB.  

So, no photos. 

And, well, writing about Vegas just makes me feel nostalgic for Vegas and leaves me further unmotivated to do anything but sigh about how I wish I was still on vacation.  

I actually asked the following question to M last night: “So, how much do you think croupiers make? Could we eek out a living being croupiers?”  

“We’d probably be better off if you were working a pole on the strip but hey.” 

Not that I really want to move to Vegas. I joke about it but, no. I actually had a meltdown in Vegas about, well, Vegas.

This is so embarrassing to admit but I’m at a loss for what else to write since no one wants to read a “hey, here are a list of my fears about my new job!” post, or a “we haven’t made any progress on the wedding plans because I am a lazy whore” post so whatever.  

We had been in a casino all day. From dark, cold casino to dark, cold casino, only stepping out into the light, hot outdoors momentarily – and then only to get to another dark, cold casino. 

It was my fault. I said to M that I wanted to see every casino on the strip. (“Even Imperial Palace, Clink?” “Yes, M, even Imperial Palace.”) But by 5pm I was sun-starved and disoriented, sitting at the crowded slots while M played blackjack, feeding dollar after dollar into a White Diamond machine, drinking a free glass of white wine, waving cigarette smoke from my face. 

I’ve had anxiety attacks before and I could feel the symptoms coming on. The shortness of breath, the tingles in my limbs, the need to get outside immediately and just exhale. 

I told M – as discreetly as possible – that I would be outside and then I ran for it. No easy task, as casinos are arranged like cornfield mazes, the exit almost as impossible to find as a clock. 

I whipped past throngs of heavyset Midwesterners and their tantrum-throwing spawn, past the bachelorette party, and the bachelor party, and the group of confused seniors milling about the exit. 

I burst into the dry desert heat and found myself a patch of shade. M followed moments after, his hand on my shoulder, his face full of concern.  Seeing him, I knew I was safe and could submit to my emotions and let it all out. 

Oh, and I did. 

“I just…this is so UNNATURAL, M. Like, this whole place! What are we doing in a casino at 5pm? With all the fucking cigarette smoke and the washed up cocktail waitresses and that asshole from Texas who placed don’t come bets and cheered every time the rest of us lost! I just feel so…weird! And…and…UNNATURAL.” 

I paused to catch my breath. Then I kicked a fake rock outside the casino and said, “see! Everything is. Just. So. Fake!” 

I don’t know what spurred it. I don’t know why I couldn’t have just been an adult about it and told M I was going to go sit by a pool for a little while, to get my bearings. The unfortunate thing (one of many) about anxiety attacks is that you don’t have much control over them. The only control I had was over my body and that control I used to get myself out of the situation before I crumpled into a ball on the floor of the casino. 

M took me to a restaurant. Got me a bottle of water and something to eat and said that we’d never have to set foot in another casino for the rest of the trip. 

“But…but…I want to play craps at the Hard Rock tonight!” I stammered. 

He pat me on the head. “Aww, that’s my good little gambling addict.”  

The rest of our trip went off without a hitch. And I mean that – not a single hitch. We won money when we gambled, we saw our first Cirque du Soleil show, we had food that surpassed my snotty New Yorker expectations, we made some friends at the craps table – croupiers and bachelor party attendees alike, we had sex in the Heavenly Bed and the Heavenly Bath, we landed safely when we came back to New York. 

The actual flight was another story. I was alternately fine and then crying; quietly reading a book and then sobbing aloud. Turbulence, combined with the fact that the flight attendants were freaking out about a passenger who had locked himself in a bathroom did not make for the easiest ride. All I kept thinking was “he’s going to bust out of that bathroom with a bomb strapped to his chest and DUDE it is ALL OVER.” (Turns out the man just had stomach problems from the beef-and-swiss sandwich served onboard. “Stomach problems, folks!” he announced when he exited the bathroom. Also, he bowed.)  

So, all in all, yay Vegas. Yay craps. Yay my awesome fiancé for taking the reigns and making the trip memorable. 

And a big boo to being back and at work and at a stressful new job.