In the waiting line

At the end of this week, I'll once again be stepping off an airplane into the artificially cooled terminal of the Las Vegas airport. This is probably the 6th or 7th time I've purchased tickets to visit the desert oasis, and each journey proves to be more eventful, more physically draining, and, ultimately, more enjoyable than the last. The latter applies with extra force to the time we decided to drive to Vegas at midnight on a Sunday in lieu of seeing a movie. If nothing else, the ratio of cleaning person to vacationer ought to be far lower this time.

Beyond the fraternizing, the mass consumption of food and alcohol, and the mischief of a Vegas reunion with my fellow Pomona alumni, one aspect of these trips that I've grown to cherish is the anticipation of it all. Like a soldier about to enter a battlefield where there is a slight chance of being fatally wounded or perhaps maimed, I sense excitment and anxiety building as my body and mind prepare for what ought to be a pleasant but otherwise exhausting four days. If the past is any indication, my inner monologue will soon be consumed with countless questions: where we will eat on Saturday? What bar we will make our venue of choice on Friday? How can I make sure we never go to the Hard Rock again? Will I spend more nights sleeping on the floor or in a bed? Should I be worried about spontaneous combustion in the 115 degree dry heat of the Strip?

Shortly, I'll have intimate knowledge of the answers to all of these questions and many more. But for now, I'm content to ponder the possibilities and revel in the anticipation of what will undoubtedly turn out to be a memorable vacation.