They say the best thing about getting older is getting wiser. As the last signs of my hangover finally recede, my body starts to re-adjust to the two-hour time difference and my Vegas vacation eversoslowly dulls from reality to memory, I marvel at all the things I learned just the past weekend, as I turned the big 3-0, particularly all the math lessons. For instance,
- Three is the number of drunk, shrieking girls who can fit, fully clothed, into a bathtub at Planet Hollywood.
- Three is also the number of helpers you need to get you to your hotel room after drinking 10 drinks at a bar and losing the ability to walk under your own power.
- One is how many drinks you must buy a strange guy to encourage him to follow you around the bar. All. Damn. Night.
- Six-thirty a.m. is the time that I will wake up every single day now, no matter how late I went to bed the night before. I’m not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing.
- Eighteen-ninety-nine is the price of a gigantic strawberry daiquiri served in a plastic tube the shape of the Eiffel Tower at Paris casino, but despite what anyone (i.e. Adam) tells you, that is not a “value” if that drink causes you to pass out on your bathroom floor for two solid hours and skip the next four meals because of nausea.
- One-hundred-and-twenty is the number of minutes I fretted beforehand about getting a tattoo; 15 is how many minutes said tattoo actually took to get.
- One is the number of photos I took with my camera during my four-day Vegas birthday vacation. Exactly one. Although, it pretty much sums up the entire trip:
- Infinity is the number of times I want to do this again. I honestly cannot think of a better way to celebrate a new decade of life.
Thanks, Vegas, for being exactly what I wanted it to be. Thanks, friends who came with, for being awesome and hilarious and adventurous and generous. And thanks, Mom and Dad, for looking at your family 30 years and 9 months ago and saying, “Nope, I don’t think we’re quite done yet.”