F*** you Vegas

So I’ve travelled nine hours to get to you and I’ve stood in queues for taxis and for hotel rooms and yet I’m wary but hopeful that everything will work out fine. I change into (what I call) a rah rah dress. I’m not sure of it, I like it, it’s fun but it’s not the nicest dress I’ve brought with me. I’ll save the nicer ones for networking and talking and strangers I don’t know but should do business with, or just someone who’ll help.

But none of what I brought is Vegas. I’M not Vegas. I think Vegas is tacky and cheap but fun and slick and for people who don’t know any better. I know better. Or at least I think I do. But I still go out tonight.

So I’m out and at first it’s like I’m in my Dad’s version of Vegas (not my words but they’re good ones) and then…there’s a comment about my hair. I’ve got roots. Blonde with dark roots. I was hoping no one would notice. But they do. I’m waiting to go home to England next week. They’ll sort my hair and I’ve had no luck in New York despite me paying the cost of a couch for someone to fry my hair. It’s just not the same. It’s just not home.

Then somehow we move and there is money exchanging hands and we are on a roof terrace and we are seeing the full Vegas strip in front of us. It is beautiful.

Breathtaking.

But then somehow everyone’s talking and it seems to be about me and a woman who wants to shag anyone she can see is saying “oh she’s pretty and smart but that’s why no one wants to date her” and colleagues turn to whisper “I know someone” or “I’ll set you up” or “It’s Vegas, just go for it” and I just want to get through the next six days just doing my job and getting back home to my friends and that no one here thinks I’m the loser that I feel like right now.

And that no one will answer “It’s cause she’s a lot of woman to handle”  with ” Is that cause of her weight?” like that stranger did. That man I didn’t know before one hour ago.

And that I won’t tear up and want the floor to open beneath me.
And that I won’t have to smile like brittle glass and just take it.
And grit my teeth to stop my screaming
And that I won’t have to see everyone just look around awkwardly and make small talk and not defend me.
And that I won’t feel like that f***ing 14 year old in ill fitting sweaters that wished I looked different and wished people noticed me and wished one guy out there would want to kiss me.

I thought I was over that.

I’m an adult.

F**k you Vegas. It’s not your fault. I don’t really mean it. But neither do the people who should know better. Though it feels like they do.

So f**k you Vegas.

F**ck you.