OMG, you guys, I did something really stupid.
I signed up to go to the RE/MAX convention in Vegas. And I’m dragging Jack along because I genuinely enjoy spending time with him, and I would feel crippling guilt if I left him home alone to go somewhere he had never been.
(Who am I kidding? He would do a fucking jig if I were gone for a week. He could watch hours and hours of Ancient Aliens, Gold Rush, Bering Sea Gold and Ice Road Truckers without my endless mocking. Seriously, had I known he would love shows like that and hate The Muppet Movie, I probably wouldn’t have married him.)
We leave in a week and we’ll be there for six nights.
WTF was I thinking?!?
Aside from the fact that I have a well-established acute fear of flying, I am also a world-class couch potato and Vegas is a couch potato’s worst nightmare! I can feel the anxiety building inside of me just thinking about all of that…activity. Don’t even get me started on the stress of knowing my DVR will be neglected for (almost) an entire week!
Also? I don’t know what to pack.
No, seriously. I’ve been obsessing about what to pack for three months. Jack, of course, will pack 20 minutes before we leave for the airport. Classic Venus/Mars situation. Mars totally has the advantage on this one.
My fashionista friend is going as well, so I decided to call her for some packing advice. HUGE mistake.
Me: I have no idea what to pack for Vegas. It’s going to be warmish, so I was thinking I would pack a bunch of capris (that will either be hanging off of me or skin tight) and sandals.
Fashionista: Well, you’ll be indoors most of the time and it’s climate-controlled. Most people are business casual.
(Shit. My wardrobe consists of jeans, sweats and dressy dresses.)
Me: Ugh. I have a couple of pairs of black pants (that are too big around the waist and too long), but what kind of shoes should I wear? I was planning on packing sandals.
Fashionista: Do you have anything with a low heel? You know, like kitten heels.
(Kitten heels? Really?? I would look like an idiot in kitten heels. I’m short and round. If I wear anything other than flip flops or 3-4″ heels, I’ll look like a troll trying to be fancy.)
Me: No. I look like an idiot in low heels.
Fashionista: What about a nice pair of black patent leather wedges?
Me: I can see I’m going to end up at the mall. What else should I pack clothing-wise?
Fashionista: You should pack the dress you wore to the Christmas party.
Me: OMG, that dress was very snug and my boobs were hanging out of it.
Fashionista: Exactly. You’ll be in Vegas.
Me: Gotcha. Also, the boobs will distract onlookers from the rest of the mess.
Now I have no choice but to go to the mall to buy myself a Vegas wardrobe, which, evidently, must include several booby-enhancing tops/dresses/sweaters.
Have I ever mentioned how much I hate shopping? I do. I’m not sure how or when it happened, for shopping used to be my greatest joy. I think the change occurred when I gained 40lbs. There are few things more demoralizing than shopping with an awkward body shape that includes, but is not limited to, linebacker upper arms, a JLo ass (flabby version), and Earl Campbell thighs (Google Images, ladies). Oh, and I’m 5’5’ which means I’m an inch too tall for petites and an inch too short for regular clothes.
Fuck you, designers. Fuck you.
Take jeans, for instance. I have a love/hate relationship with jeans. I love the way they look (on other girls), but hate they way they fit. I own at least six pairs. Almost all of them are too big in the waist, snug around the ass, vice-grip tight around the thighs, and either too short or too long. Today I wore a pair of Old Navy Rockstar Jeans. The length was PERFECT. Unfortunately, the low(ish) rise coupled with the huge ass and skin-tight thighs resulted in a lovely plumber’s crack whenever I sat down. Oh, and the tightness around the thighs made it difficult to pull them all the way up, causing the crotch to sag. I may or may not have looked like I have a dick.
Oh so sexy.
Needless to say, I couldn’t wait to get them off of me. I’m now wearing Old Navy thick jersey sweatpants. They feel like heaven fell from the skies and wrapped itself around me.
Are sweatpants acceptable Vegas garb?