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thisolddag · 6 years

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Girls Trip.

Before we left for Vegas, I was worried. A hundred excuses about why this was going to “end badly.” I trudged up and down the stairs, laundry piled in my arms, half-heartedly packing the smallest of carry-on bags. There would be too much drinking. There would be money gambled and lost. My son had an upcoming test and I wouldn’t be home to help him study. What if I got the flu from traveling halfway across the country? What if the kids got the flu while I was gone? Was this trip even necessary? Were we being indulgent?

So that’s how I got in the car to go to the airport. Laden with stupid little fears, and wearing high-heeled boots that were already starting to hurt because I told myself that I was in my forties now and I needed to start traveling ‘in style.’ Why? Who the fuck knows. I do know there were separate texts threads I was not a part of.

Dag is being a party pooper, Dag needs to relax, whatever Dag.

They were right. I needed to relax. In my eyes, there is nothing as mystifying and miraculous as a woman who is able to give into the conviction that everything will be alright. Holding onto this feeling is my holy grail in life. I chase it. I was chasing it then, speeding down the turnpike on a bright Sunday morning, across the George Washington Bridge, while the driver played NPR.

Most of my anxiety dissipated when I saw my little sister at JFK. She’s recently become a mother herself. Her son is probably the most beautiful little thing I’ve ever laid eyes upon. She’s doting and selfless, and will go down in the books as Best Mom Ever. “I’m not wearing any make-up,” she said when she hugged me, and when she hugged me, my worry went slack. Her face was full of emotion and exhaustion, having just experienced the bittersweet ache of having to hug your baby goodbye. And just looking at her, a thought came to me, a thought that surpassed everything. This is important.

Sometimes leaving is important.

The last time we had flown together solo had been a year ago, and I had nothing but warm and fuzzy memories of that trip. Those memories helped. And as I boarded the airplane with my sister and Alice, I could feel a familiar transformation beginning. I was becoming a girl again, a girl with a room of her own. Or at least her own seat, in row 16, by the window, next to a lovely British gal who greeted me with a wide, open smile.

The fight was smooth. I didn’t grip the arm rest. I nodded off, listened to music, read a few magazines. I stared out the window into clouds and then Rockies, and then into a desert, the topography like something from Mars. The further we flew, the more I relaxed. And the more I realized yes, this was necessary.

You can’t wish motherhood toward you, as much as you can’t wish it away. It follows you, a stray dog at your heels, or a shadow, or a sunrise. You bask in its light, become windswept in its gales. It seeps into you, wipes your slate clean, digs in its claws, saves you, weighs you down, carries you. We become mothers and we become someone else’s - fully, a thousand percent, twenty-four seven. At least most of us anyway.

We become drivers in the passenger seat, just like that.

Once we landed - and all at once - I abandoned my traveling buddies and took a tram to vape outside. I had a headache. It was chilly. I had never stepped outside in Vegas to be met with a brisk breeze, or the sight of people wearing coats. It was new, and oddly exciting. Vegas was usually an oven set to broil, but not this time.

In arrivals, we met my other sister - joining us from LA. She had on sequined sneakers, and also, there was a piece of toilet paper hanging from her waistband, which we readily pointed out and laughed about. She was giddy, glowing. “I needed this trip so badly.”

Later that evening Alice’s sister would arrive from Florida - and then there would be five of us. There is safety and strength in numbers, especially when the numbers are celebrating upcoming nuptials, and when the numbers are all girls.

Before we got in the car which would bring us to the Bellagio, I bought a heavy, sexy-looking bottle of coconut vodka at the airpot liquor store. I was caving already. We were here. We were here together, and everything we loved had been left behind. And it was fine.

Over the next two days, amazing things happened.

I lost hundreds of dollars on penny slots, and laughed till it hurt. I napped and ate without counting my Points. I thrived in the company of females, in that warm, buoyant, beguiling company - where talking together was as exciting as watching grown men on a stage take off their clothes and dance for us. (Hashtag Magic Mike.) We talked a lot. About kids, yes - the ones we had, the ones we planned on having, the ones we weren’t sure about. We talked about careers, and weddings, and books, and more trips, more time to ourselves, time together. We talked about how in our own small ways we hated our bodies, as much as we loved ourselves. We talked about shitting our pants and we cried, over cornbread and fried chicken at a Top Chef restaurant.

Alice was in love. Alice was getting married. Alice yelled at a dopey man in a cowboy hat who got in our faces.

Dag was writing a second novel. Dag had a flat stomach. Dag ate a whole bag of English Toffee brittle by herself.

Marika was selling pilots and uploading Insta Stories. Marika was happy. Marika was our mastermind.

Melanie had the best hair. It was red and lustrous and almost unreal. Melanie was planning the rest of her life.

Veronika was a new mom. Veronika sat on the edge of the hotel room bed, pumping breast milk, smiling.

There is nothing as powerful and affirming as women bonding. And how we bond - when the masks drop and the dainty gloves come off - is unrivaled.

Over the next two days, I traveled back to my youth, to the heady feeling of feeling alive, unconquerable, limitless. I visited the ATM machine too many times. I didn’t really call my children, or my husband. I drank White Russians, without really getting drunk. I thought about how the #metoo movement would never change men, but that - more importantly - it had the power to change us. That we were awakening. Learning to say no, to meet a smile with a scowl, to talk louder, to demand, to get up and go, to fight back. We would change. Men were hopeless, even the good ones. Men would never learn to read our minds. But we would learn to speak ours.

On our second night in Vegas, we sat on a velvet couch right by the stage, close to the men who were performing for us. Their bodies were chiseled, sure, but some had zits on their shoulder blades, and strange, bulbous moles we could make out from our seats. Some of them were phoning it in, some of them were beautiful acrobats, and when they sidled up to our hips, they whispered, is it ok, are you ok with this? I had never gone to a strip show before - and I’d arrived with a frown on my face, my legs crossed tightly, my hands folded in my lap like the schoolmarm that I was. But this was a bacheloretty trip, and Marika likes to plan activities, and so there we were. The emcee was a woman, dressed like a lion tamer, black blazer, her body strong and curvy, her voice deep and loud and reassuring. We felt safe having her up there, conducting and being boss. At the end of the show, she rode a giant stuffed unicorn into the sky, and at one point she locked eyes with my little sister and mouthed “Bye, Veronika.” And I don’t know why but it gave me goosebumps.

I didn’t want to say bye. I wanted to stay with them - wandering through casinos and talking and talking and talking - forever.

When we left Vegas, we left reluctantly. Reality was waiting for us, waiting at the door, the door held wide open, urging us to get back inside. We didn’t want to go back. We wanted to keep pumping and dumping, and popping another can of rose, and sliding another ten bucks into a Willy Wonka slot machine, and playing our luck. We wanted to keep hearing everything back home was fine without us.

Now, we are here. We stopped texting everyday. We are back to the grind, to chores, schedules, bedtimes, meltdowns. I miss the feeling of feeling young. I miss my girls. In my mind, our trip is branded forever. Tucked inside, nestled deeply, rooted. And yes, we’ll have weddings to go to, and airplanes to board, and homework to check, and appointments to go on, and babies to calm. We’ll have fights, jobs, scares, conferences, laundry, dishes, garbage, family, diets. We’ll have days when we want to crawl under a blanket. We’ll have peaceful moments of silence. We’ll have grief, rage, love, and monotony.

And we’ll always, always have Vegas in January.

Bye, Veronika. Till next time.

#girlstrip #vegas #women #bonding

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