If you ever want to see my boys turn our home into a fortress, just utter the words, "Girls' Weekend." One minute into explaining that my friends were coming over to pick me up for a little trip, and all four boys urgently began crafting swords out of K'Nex, loading their Nerf guns with bullets, and building blanket barricades in preparation for the imminent feminine attack.
Fear not, boys. My old college roomies just wanted a quick peek at our new house and then we were off to the heart of Las Vegas where we rented a hotel room, bought matching jammies, and ate entire meals without having to lift a finger for anybody else.
When I called to make the reservation, I was trying to sound experienced in the massaging and spa-going lifestyle, so I was playing it cool. I impressed myself with my elegant answers and the confident way I repeated my address back to them, leading me to believe they thought I was high class. I had to keep the charade up when they explained to me that they had both male and female massage therapists and did I have a preference?
My gut said yes. I want a girl. But my cool alter ego instead actually voiced, "No." The lady on the phone even clarified as if she was surprised by my answer, validating my initial surge of panic that I probably should have a preference, but I remained politically correct and unbiased as I attempted to cooly assure her (and myself), "Either one is fine."
I hung up the phone and questioned my existence. I mean, if Jeff got a massage, I think he would get a woman. Do women get men massage-ers? That seems weird to have an unknown man massage me. But am I making too big a deal of this? It's their job. What's the difference in a man versus a woman massaging me if it's just a job. Am I making this sexual? If it's sexual, wouldn't it be weirder if a woman was massaging me? Wouldn't it be weird either way? Massages ARE weird either way. THIS IS WHY I DON'T GET MASSAGES!!!
In a tizzy, I texted Leslie and Kenz to see if they put in a male/female request or if they were rolling the gender dice right along with me. They both all caps texted me that yes I wanted a woman and I felt good about that decision. In a move that was very obviously a hi-I'm-new-to-the-spa-scene, and totally giving up my cool act, I called back and requested a woman. They almost sounded as relieved on the other end as I did. I could clearly hear the "I thought so" in her voice as she read me off that confirmation number one last time. Take my Groupon, give me a woman, and leave me alone, fancy spa people.
Nothing says girls' weekend like a day at the spa. It's a must. Even if you hate being touched. And hate sweating. And hate seeing people swim naked. You will get over all these things in the name of saying sayonara to your back knots and partaking of the endless Instagrammable robe photo opportunities.
Trouble is, we weren't sure what town to hit. And we hit the wrong part of town real hard. It should have been a warning when we hopped in an elevator, heading straight for Fremont Street, when a fellow elevator passenger cautioned, "Stay safe out there."
We brushed off his warning with quick eyerolls, seeing as we don't drink or club or prostitute. Thanks, DAD. We're grown women. We can fend for ourselves on the streets of Las Vegas.
Then we saw the clown. Like a literal clown walking down the street. Well, I mean, not a literal clown. It was a man dressed as a scary clown not doing tricks. So a literal clown not clowning around. Followed by piles of homeless people, a band of police officers just waiting for the evening to turn, many ladies of the night, and a dancer with a ribbon and little more.
This is a good time to mention Fremont Street is never the place you want to go when you come to visit Vegas. Some things you have to learn the hard way.
This is also a good time to mention The Strip looks reeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaallllll nice after you've spent some time (5 minutes) strolling on Fremont Street at 7:00 PM on a Saturday night. We felt safe on The Strip. Just to put Fremont Street into perspective.
We ate at The Factory in The Venetian followed by gelato. This is where you must imagine me doing that Italian thing where I kiss the ends of my fingers and then do a little hand explosion. You know the move I'm talking about, right? *Mwah!*
Followed by the...chalant(?), Seventeen Magazine-esque posing of...muah (said with the same kiss/hand explosion Italian thing from earlier).
Is it weird my favorite meal was breakfast at Babystacks? Probably because it was our last meal together and we were all stalling to avoid our returns to reality, resulting in much giggling and engorging on decadent pancakes.
