Leaving Las Vegas

Las Vegas is too much for this old computer dork. Too much drink. Too much food. Too much skin. Too much looming sin. I really WANT to enjoy myself. But I feel guilty. I don't feel like I deserve such delicious treats. Or extra time in bed. (6AM in Las Vegas is 8AM to my internal clock.) I should keep watching my diet. Spare my liver. Actually commit to some training. But I do none of those. Thus, Las Vegas is one, long, non-stop cheat on every private promise I've made to myself. And the city knows it. Knows I'll cave in. With my wallet. With my waistline. With my every waking moment. Its laughter thrums like all-too-distant cicadas.

I do enjoy one thing: the people. So many names I've only known through email or IM. Meeting them in person is always interesting. Even if I'm older than some of them. Even when they inevitably confess, "I thought you'd have more of an accent." Hey, we do have running water and electric lights in MS, you know? Not all of us sound like Haley Barbour.

How these people resist the temptations of this city is beyond me. Don't they see it? Are they somehow numb to the scope and screams and and shot glasses and chink chink chink of slot machines in every conceivable corner? I'd live paycheck to paycheck. Never go home. Or bother changing clothes. Like some sort of living dead geek. But all these folks are immune. They've built up a tolerance. Me, I'd be an addict if I didn't escape.

I'm ready to be home. Far fewer choices and temptations. Boring food. Boring drink. No sign of skin or sin. I like my life simpler. Less tempting. Nothing to think about. Just slow Southern habits moving in endless gray circles. There's a comfort in my tedium. Maybe I don't have as many options back in the balmy depths of South Mississippi, but I have no guilt, plenty of time to train, and a healthier relationship with my liver!