“Can I buy you an orange juice?”

Last night, I took my friend (and schoolmate since 2004!) out for her 21st birthday. We went to Blush at Wynn, which is a lovely club with really exciting lights that flash in time to the music AND aren’t strobe lights. (Strobe lights at clubs, as I’ve learned over the six months since my 21st birthday, are scary. You don’t know someone is coming up behind you UNTIL THEY’RE ALREADY THERE. That puts a monkey wrench in my creeper radar…)

Clubbing in Vegas, for local girls, generally goes like this:

1) Get in free. Smile condescendingly at all the tourists in their LBDs as you pass the line that they’re paying $30 to wait in.

2) Drink. Sometimes we get free tables. Sometimes we get free open bar. Last night, we got free champagne. Otherwise, the best course of action is to stand there looking approachable until someone offers to buy you a drink. Or many someones offer to buy you a drink. Sometimes it gets difficult to rebuff the potential drink-buyers; last night I was driving, so I kept having to turn them down. One particularly persistent creeper offered to buy me an orange juice. I declined, as really, it’s only worth having to put up with some dude following you around if you get booze out of it. (I am a classy, college-educated feminist, for the record.)

3) Observe. There are many species who populate Vegas clubs. Mostly, it’s unattractive-yet-well-dressed men who are OVERWHELMED by the array of attractive ladies in front of them and can’t do anything except sit at their $1000 tables and stare at your ass. There are a lot of short men. As for the ladies, there is one thing that separates them: the women who know how to select a dress at Forever 21, and the women who really need Stacy London’s guidance and a 360-degree mirror. (In actuality, a lot of these women are probably shopping at stores a lot classier than Forever 21, but their dresses look just as trashy and poorly made as mine do, and at least I didn’t drop more than $25 on mine…)

4) Dance. Dancing involves moving around a lot until you find sufficient space and then moving around a lot more until you get away from whatever creeper has attached himself to you at a given moment. It also involves explaining to every single guy who comes to chit-chat that yes, in fact, you ARE from Vegas. I know, right? It’s so crazy! Yeah, I went to high school here! Um, no, I don’t want to see your hotel room. Oh, sorry, I see someone on the other side of the room whom I desperately need to talk to right this second. I’m gonna sprint away now. Meanwhile, the music will generally be exhorting you to Put Your Hands in the Air. Don’t resist. You’re gonna end up doing it. Wear deodorant.

5) Finish metabolizing your free drinks. Realize that you’re wearing an uncomfortably short dress and that there are approximately 59650 small men in your personal bubble. Push your way through the crowd, avoiding any mobs trying to catch a sight of the NBA star at the VIP table, and get to the parking garage. Take your drunk charges to Roberto’s for 2 AM taquitos. Make sure they’re not trying to take off their clothes. (If you are the drunk charge in question, keep your clothes on and try not to vom up chicken tacos on the Summerlin Parkway.)

There are always a few entertaining asides to this outline… like last night, when my foot got stomped on. Twice. Once by a stiletto. On the same foot that got stomped by a character shoe during the musical I was in at the beginning of the month. It may go into hibernation. Or insist on steel-toed boots. We also witnessed a fistfight! It was very exciting, except for I couldn’t actually see anything because I’m a foot shorter than the rest of the world. Alas.


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