Fat Old Woman in Las Vegas: Gambling, Dieting and Wicked Fun (3 page)

The cliché, planning for a journey is the most rewarding part of travel, is true for me. The excitement of what could, will, or might happen far exceeds anything that actually happens during my adventures. Having a mild case of obsessive-compulsion disorder, I relish in packing, unpacking, packing again, unpacking, and then doing a final repacking. For a long vacation, such as Vegas, I begin preparing three months in advance.

I love making lists, crossing off lists, making new lists and being prepared for anything that might possibly go wrong while traveling. The precise organization that I spend on my rambling is exactly the opposite of how I live my daily life.

Though I tend to make two or three to-do lists a day, I rarely complete any of the chores. The small piece of paper I write on is usually lost by dinnertime. Even posting it on a clever online bulletin board website does not work for me. I’ve tried slapping a brightly colored Post-it on my wall as a reminder. The Post-it will eventually fall off and slide underneath my desk, hidden by file drawers and kicked-off house slippers.

Five years later I will occasionally find one of my dated manifests. My half-a-decade-old note is the same one I wrote to myself earlier that morning:

1) Clean house

2) Do laundry

4) Exercise

5) Count calories

3) Write two thousand words or at least a friggin’ paragraph.

More than likely, none of my goals will be accomplished or even attempted. My house has never been actually clean, at least not according to my mom’s standards. Our floors are only mopped when I can no longer pass off the dirt as built-in tile patterns. Laundry is accomplished in steps, often one pantie at a time. My daily writing and word count averages zero to five hundred words max.

Still, making a to-do list is a part of my psyche, like buying a new notebook when I start a project. There is an urge to create that same excitement I felt on the very first day of school.

Every city I travel to has its own separate checklist. The one for Las Vegas includes items for that city, and that city alone:

Sunglasses on a cord

One tube of SPF 30

Animal print, rhinestone and bedazzled clothing

Diaper pins

Temporary tramp stamps

I am at the age where survival is more important than style. Long ago, my stilettos were tossed aside for shoes that could only be described as sturdy. If I need to carry anything like a purse or glasses, I attach it to my body. I acknowledge that my being careless is a given. My ability to forget anything, no matter how important, will happen. If my sunglasses are not lashed securely, I will lose them.

The sun is painfully bright walking down the Vegas strip. For my weakening, stroke injured-eyes, it is not an option to go without shades. The Nevada sun easily turns into a lethal weapon. I do not want to become one of its victims.

The Vdara hotel opened on Las Vegas Boulevard in December of 2009. It took a few months before its one architectural flaw, nicknamed
The Death Ray
, made headline news across the world. The Vdara is a fifty-seven story hotel/condo complex comprised of steel beams and mirrored windows. Though lovely to look at, Vdara came close to having their poolside guests spontaneously combust.

The concave design of the mirrored building acted as a parabolic reflector, collecting the bright Las Vegas sun’s burning energy and shooting the beams downward toward the chaise lounges surrounding the pool. The laser like beams were so intense they could easily burn skin at certain times of the day because of the sun’s unique positioning. When the sunrays were aimed just so, plastic cups and bags melted in the heat. Vdara eventually fixed the issue by using strategically placed gigantic green plants around the pool area and installing light filtering film on the window surfaces. Still the image of being spiked to death by a sunray bounding off a glass building has stayed with many people. It has with me.

In Vegas, if I am not inside a casino, I am usually strolling by one. If not, I’ll be lounging on a chaise next to the pool. I always wear SPF 30 sunscreen. Once it is applied, my entire body shines as bright as the fake bling on my chubby fingers.

If I am not careful in rubbing the sunscreen completely into my skin before I bolt from the hotel room, it will be noticeable when I hit the casino floor. There are many times in the past when I’ve looked like a mime in training as I walked the strip. If I added a pair of white gloves, I could have earned a few bucks as a street entertainer.

Leopard is the new black

When I am in Sin City, leopard is the new black
.
Minnesota winters mean my daily outfit consists of a pair of black sweatpants topped off with a black hoodie. If I’m feeling festive, I might toss on a gray sweatshirt featuring a tiny, embroidered loon sitting atop my left breast.
My summer ensembles are no better or more colorful. I don dark t-shirts and black, stretch capris. I slip my feet into scruffy, Velcro strapped white New Balance shoes. If my clothes make any statement, it’s “Don’t look at me. Please, I beg you.”

But in Vegas … it’s a whole different story. Everyone, including me, wants to be noticed.

When you visit Vegas the one thing you will continually notice is skin … rippling and jiggling mountains of it coming at you in varying hues, ages and genders. Young women squeeze into body tight dresses with hems that are so high and tops so low, there is barely any material left to cover their lady bits. If the outfit happens to be a two-piece, more than likely the skirt will be a low riding hip hugger, and a red lace thong will be riding up her butt crack. On their feet will be sky-high high heels of at least four inches.

I have even seen six-inch heels, the wearer struggling to take one slow step at a time. The fact that the owner held an ice-filled cocktail glass at two in the afternoon probably didn’t help her stability. Every forward movement became a true act of bravery. If she toppled over just once, there’d be little chance for survival.

For a long time, the city of Las Vegas itself was the epitome of phoniness. Now the average tourist is counterfeit, as well. From fake nails, eyelashes, hair, tans, tattoos, and jewelry to multiple layers of foam padding that enhance both boobs and butts to Kardashian-sized portions. Nothing in Vegas appears to be real.

Men get trapped in the same game of illusions. They layer spray-on tans and hang gold-plated chains around their necks. Cheap toupees glisten on their heads as they stuff fake money behind one single legit twenty-dollar bill in their wallets. With their wallets wide open, they hold it for a few seconds in that position, allowing those around them to see just how “rich” they are.

The younger men have steroid enhanced bodies that reveal chiseled ribs and six-pack abs that not even God could create. I have seen men walking down the strip wearing, what had to be a five-inch thick codpiece placed under their jeans in order to attract attention to their Netherlands.

There is nothing wrong with any of the above attitudes when in Vegasland. In fact, it’s perfectly acceptable. The city is an adult theme park meant for fantasy, not reality. Simply put, being in Las Vegas means it’s Halloween all year long.

From shoes, leggings, tops, swimming suits, underwear and jewelry, my Las Vegas attire is nothing less than a polyester rainforest of animal prints, rhinestones, and sequined anything. I spend a year picking out my Vegas duds. If it’s a cheetah print it goes into my shopping cart. If it’s on clearance, I often buy two. For a ten-day stay, I will carry enough clothing for three wardrobe changes a day. All of the clothing will still have their sales tags attached when I arrive. They often have the same tags when I leave. If one of the outfits becomes my “lucky” outfit, the one I was wearing when I hit a jackpot, I will wear it the entire trip, rinsing it out nightly in the hotel sink.

Growing up a “hefty” girl who could only find dark colored A-line dresses hidden at the back of the local Sears store, I love the attitude of today’s plus-size model and retailer.
Show It if You Got It
is the norm. Gone are the terms such as sensible, sturdy, and concealing. Now the ad copy reads voluptuous, full-figured, big and beautiful. When you add the sparkle and glitter of the clothes I buy for Vegas, I end up looking like a Plus-Size Dolly Parton Drag Queen.

Life doesn’t get better than that.

Diaper pins for security.

A reoccurring nightmare I endure finds me completely lost and stranded in Las Vegas. In it, I am filled with dread as I trudge from one semi-familiar gambling hall to the next. I keep asking gamblers or tourists if anyone knows who I am? Not a single person hears what I am asking. I pass by a mirrored wall and catch a glimpse of the reflection of a woman. I have no idea who she is. It is not until I am about to come to consciousness, that I realize she is me.

I wake up terrified, my eyes shooting open. It takes a second or two to know I am in my bed at home, safe and warm beneath a down comforter. My night terrors disappear and I fall back to sleep. Yet, in the morning, I will check my cache of diaper pins in my jewelry box. If I don’t have a dozen or more, I will make another online order to purchase them. I would never consider traveling without them.

I don’t need a dream interpreter to explain my nightmare. I am petrified of losing three things in Las Vegas: my ID, my return ticket home, and my credit cards.

Because of my severe sleep apnea, I need to book a roomette on Amtrak. Without a machine plugged in, and a mask covering my face, I wake up fifty-eight times an hour. That is not a typo. By the time my condition was diagnosed, I couldn’t drive more than twenty minutes before dozing off at the wheel.

A room on Amtrak can be extraordinarily expensive or in my case, free. For the last decade or so I have used frequent rider miles to travel on Amtrak. Throughout the year we charge everything from sofas to a Sunday newspaper in order to earn the forty thousand miles needed for a round trip fare, room and meals included. It is the only first class travel I have ever done. I feel like a big shot the moment I step on the train.

However, if I were to lose my Amtrak ticket while in Vegas? I am screwed, unless I purchased the e-ticket, which is not allowed when using reward miles for travel. Rail tickets are treated like cash. If I lost mine, I’d have to buy another one to replace it.

Unless I win a progressive jackpot, there’d be no way I could justify spending the money that Amtrak demands for first class travel on the spur of the moment. I’ve long since decided if my tickets did get misplaced, I’d probably decide to stay and live in Vegas. It would be cheaper.

I do everything I can to prevent losing ID’s, credit cards, cash or my ticket … everything including looking foolish.

On every trip I carry a red zippered nylon bag, measuring six by eleven inches. Inside the pouch are two zippered compartments. In the back compartment I place my return ticket and passport. Homeland Security requires both air and rail passengers to carry IDs. If I do not have one, I will not be able to board the train, even with a ticket in hand.

Two diaper pins secure the zipper shut. I do not remove them until the very last evening when I am sitting at McCarran Airport, waiting to catch the Amtrak Shuttle.

In the other compartment is my start-out cash for the trip, six hundred dollars. If I run out of cash after a day or two, I will withdraw three hundred dollars daily from an ATM.

Finally, the pouch goes deep inside my bra and is diaper pinned securely in place. Four pins are clasped together so in case one opens unexpectedly, the other three would prevent the contents from spilling out onto the ground.

It’s a good thing that Amtrak doesn’t have a metal detector like the airport does. If it did, my boobs would set off alarms.

Temporary Tramp Stamps

Nowadays, when I go anywhere for more than twenty-four hours, I plaster my body with temporary tramp stamps. I do not add tattoos to look cool or pretend I am a motorcycle momma. I do not have a silver nose ring in my nostril nor do I die my hair purple, green and gothic black. There is not a single piercing below my ear lobes. I am not trying to complete any “look.”

I am merely trying to save my life.

The majority of women my age do not have tattoos, even the temporary press-on kind that washes away with soap and rubbing alcohol. A few of my peers have indulged in a bit of the ink, but to my knowledge none of my lifelong friends have ever been tatted. Teenage girls did not do that in the ’60s, or at least not the ones I hung around. My fundamentalist Christian friends didn’t drink beer, go to movies, or dance. And it goes without saying, not one of them would dare let a man near them with anything that was designed to poke.

Tattoos were the territory of our male counterpoints. My brothers returned from the military with honorary discharge papers and one or more images protruding from their biceps. It was a rite of passage for drunk, young men, a million miles away from home.

I envied my brother’s tattoos. I remember one bro’s blue inked skeleton, a top hat sitting jauntily on the skull’s head as a cigarette dangled from its mouth. In 1962, tattoos were almost evil and certainly titillating. I blushed when a neighbor flexed his biceps and the hula girl danced, her hips swaying in his sweat. Years later, once his muscles disappeared and his stomach grew outwards, he said he wished he had tattooed her on his belly, instead.