Twenty dollars of booty sweat

The first three times I went to Las Vegas I did the following:

1. Sold books at a women's studies conference and developed a bizarre obsession with Danny Gans.

2. Bungee jumped over a parking lot for my Trek America leader training and ate at an Italian restaurant where I saw Micky Dolenz from the Monkees.

3. Celebrated Sunny's 30th birthday and decided once and for all that I don't like strip clubs.

Now I'm here for a string of Spice Girls shows and a day off before we fly to London. I'm working but we also have time to relax. I'm not celebrating anything like a birthday or the wild capacity for people to ogle each others' flesh. No one is forcing me to get a lap dance and I don't feel like going crazy, Vegas-style.

Matty drove from Los Angeles to hang out and do terrible things like watch me eat fajitas at 4 am. When I put my menu down, stared up at the waiter and said, "Chicken fajitas, please" Matt snorted. I didn't understand why until the fajitas came steaming and sizzling across the room on a plate so huge that the busboy practically had to pull up an extra table for all the side dishes. Slightly embarrassing. 

This morning Matty suggested we go to the gym. I thought that was a great idea given the 97 pounds of fajitas undigested in my stomach. We put on an assortment of sweats, t-shirts, bandannas, and skull & crossbone socks and took the elevator to the second floor. The guy at the desk said sure, we could work out FOR TWENTY BUCKS EACH. Unfortunately the fajita situation had made working out a high priority so I told him to put it on my room.

Included in this fee were no spa services, sugar scrubs, or stripper massages in the locker room. No shots of Jack, nothing. We got bottled water and a bowl of fruit that had been sweated on by who knows how many people. I tried to get my money's worth by running on the treadmill at top speed, simultaneously listening to Daft Punk in my earphones and watching Animal Planet on the TV. I ran further and faster than usual and was feeling pleased with myself until I went to stretch and saw my ass in the mirror: it was sweating all over the place.

I have never seen any ass sweat so much, nor has my behind ever been so drenched and plainly marked with two big assy ovals. Matty asked if I wanted to get coffee in the lobby before changing and I looked at him, "Has my ass not assaulted your senses yet?" No way was I strolling through a lobby in my current condition. 

We left the gym with as many water bottles and pieces of fruit as we could realistically manage. Matty dropped the room key and, in trying to pick it up, spilled three or four apples and oranges on the carpet. I picked off a free pen from the front desk and would have taken one of the flower arrangements but thought that might be pushing it.