By all appearances, it was a completely normal Monday when I walked back into the office after my Vegas trip. Same routine, same coffee, same walk to my desk like any other start to the week.
I walked over to one of my manager’s desks to ask a routine question. Something operational, something forgettable. He answered, I thanked him, and I was about halfway through turning to leave when he looked up and asked:
“So, how was Vegas?”
The question caught me off guard. I hadn’t gone over there to talk about the trip. Before my internal filter could kick in, the words had already escaped my mouth.
“Have you ever been in a situation where getting into a car with a stranger was your safest option?”
He paused and looked at me for a second. Not alarmed. Solemn. Just studying the sentence like he was deciding what to do with it. Then he smiled and said:
“What happens in Vegas…”
“Exactly,” I thought.
I didn’t expect I would ever be writing about it. Life takes turns like that. And, well… here we are.
Rewind back to the Holiday Season of 2021
My best friend and I had been talking about starting a tradition: a girls’ trip every year. And Vegas was an obvious first for us both. Neither of us had ever been there before. The planning phase lasted… maybe a few hours. One minute we were saying, “We should actually do this,” and the next, we had flights booked for that following March. You know that moment when something shifts from idea to reality faster than you expected? That sharp, electric jolt when you open your email and the blue-light glow hits your face and you think, Oh. Shit. We’re actually doing this.
This was also the first trip I had really taken entirely on my own terms. We planned it together. Paid for it ourselves. It felt small on paper. It did not feel small when we were in Philadelphia, boarding our flight out.
The Thursday Before We Left
The Thursday before we left, my car died. Sudden. Undramatic. Extremely inconvenient. I hauled the vehicle to a mechanic, only to be told that the catalytic converter and transmission would need to be replaced. The work would’ve cost me more than the value of the car itself. And just like that, without even being given a vote, the fate of my beloved 2013 Mitsubishi Lancer had been sealed. That is the kind of mechanical failure that makes you see your car’s life flash before your eyes.
It was stressful. I was leaving that following Monday. And I could’ve sat there asking, “why me?” But instead of panic, I asked: “Okay… what’s next?” In the next 24 hours, I found a new car to buy and unexpectedly sold the old Mitsubishi for parts, accepting $500 in cash. The crisp weight of those bills in my hand felt like a sign. That $500 became my Vegas bankroll.
Arrival in Las Vegas
Now let’s fast forward, but not too far, to March 2022. We land in Vegas, we grab our bags, and then we followed the signs for the airport pickup. And that was when we saw him—a man standing near the exit holding an iPad with her name on it.
Wow, this Uber driver really wants a five-star review, I thought.
He motioned toward the door. And right there, just beyond the doors, parked up against a curb that wasn’t actually a parking spot, was the limo. She smiled and finally let me in on it: she had arranged it ahead of time as a surprise.
Inside, there was cool air, champagne and the smell of leather, but it wasn’t about the limo or the champagne. It was about the thought. It was about the care she put into making sure this trip started the right way. That gesture set the stage for everything that followed—a quiet way of saying, This trip matters. That first deep exhale where travel ends and “being there” begins was entirely her doing.
The Last Twenty Dollars and a Broken Blackjack Machine
The casino floor was a cacophony of noise and rhythmic chimes designed to keep your eyes wide. I sat down at a $25 minimum blackjack table with my full $500 bankroll.
That $500 began disappearing at an impressive rate. I’d have a hit here and there—classic intermittent reinforcement. It was like dating the dealer based on the potential of being rich, while actually being robbed blind one hand at a time. It’s the ultimate sleight of hand; you’re so focused on the distraction, the lie, the potential of the future… that you don’t even take notice as they are chipping away at your foundation in the present.
Eventually, what was once $500.00 dwindled to a whopping $20. Not even enough to afford me one last hit of dopamine. So, accepting defeat, I stood from the table with a new kind of heaviness and began to walk away, leaving behind the same temptation I surrendered to when I first saw that vacant chair—ready for the next person to take my seat and find out if the dealer would be kinder to them.
I wandered until I found a cluster of electronic blackjack machines. I fed in the last $20 and lost the first hand. I was numb to the feeling of losing, so automatically, my hand hit the button a second time.
Then the blackjack tables turned. Hard.
I won. Took it as a fluke and bet again. Another win. Then again. And again. Rinse, repeat. Over and over. My $15.00 began to grow. Rapidly. And when I finally cashed out, the ticket read $1,400.00. It felt like the energy I was carrying from that massive loss finally exhaled—it felt less like the relief of releasing a breath that has overstayed its welcome, and more like when exhaust clears from a tailpipe. And from that moment on, I referred to that machine as “The Broken One.”
The Agenda
While wandering the property that night, we found the gym. Inside, the treadmills faced massive windows overlooking the pool complex, stretching into the darkness as if keeping a secret the morning sun would soon reveal. By the time we went to sleep, the gym was already our first item on the agenda.
The next morning, we got into our workout clothes and claimed our treadmills. Facing those massive windows and seeing that pool area in the daylight changed the course of how the rest of that day would go. It wasn’t “just” a pool; it was an expansive city-state. As we ran, we both agreed: the pool was next.
The Turning Point
My friend immediately found a chair in full sun. Me? I get stressed out at the thought of going to the beach. If you even describe sunlight to me, I’d burn in it. So I found one of the few free shaded seating areas, in front of an ourdoor bar, tucked right around the corner from my friend. I sat down, pulled out my book and opened it, trying to focus on the words I was reading from its pages, but it wasn’t long before I got distracted by the bartender who was pouring drinks just a handful of feet away from me. It was 10:30 AM on a Tuesday, but I had just won a stack of cash. Decisions felt the same way objects feel when you see them in your car door mirrors. The same way a well-made strong cocktail tastes like the best juice you’ve ever had right before the memory of the last 12 hours evaporates. I closed my book, walked up to the bar, and ordered two Long Island iced teas.
Two Drinks and One Black-Ops Rescue Mission Later…
I carried the drinks back, we clinked glasses—vacation rules—and I settled back into my shade. I was barely halfway through my drink, already telling myself I wasn’t getting a second one.
Then, my friend appeared beside me, holding a second Long Island iced tea for me. It was liquid karma. Typically, moments where you realize a decision has already been made for you are met with resistance. But on this particular day? I looked at that glass and felt that weightless realization: I have nowhere I have to be. That heavy cloak of responsibility just slid off. We laughed, accepted our fate, and settled back into our chairs.
I’m not sure how much time had gone by before I heard my phone ring. It was her husband.
“Hey,” he said, “when’s the last time you saw her?”
I stood up, walked around the corner of the bar, and looked toward her chair. I was met with immediate disbelief and confusion. It was empty. She was gone.
What followed was a ridiculous shit show. Her husband became the “Eye in the Sky,” acting as my remote air-traffic controller from Pennsylvania with a map of the hotel grounds locked down on his screen while he simultaneously tracked her location through her cell phone.
“Walk to the end of that hallway,” he directed. “You’re going to see a pile of boats. Turn left.”
I ran past a massive display featuring a pile of boats thinking, “How the fuck did he know that would be there?!* At one point, he called me back and said she’d Facetimed him from an elevator, surrounded by random women hilariously trying to help her. Once we understood she was safe, what started as panic turned into pure comedy. When I finally spotted her, she was sitting on a bench in an adjacent mall, completely fine and completely unaware of the multi-state logistical operation that had just occurred.
Two People, One Median, and… Ryan
By evening, we were rushing to get ready for a comedy show. We were already 20 minutes late, and the line for a cab was massive. I went to the concierge and asked, “Hey, is it possible to walk to the MGM?” He said, “Oh yeah, you just go this way, then this way. Then turn here.” Sounded easy enough.
We started walking. And quickly, we learned that Vegas distance is a lie. We lost sight of the MGM under an overpass, got turned around, coudn’t regain sight of our destination, and eventually found ourselves standing on a narrow concrete divider in the middle of a busy road, traffic flying past us on three sides after dark.
A car slowed down—cautiously, which made me feel slightly safer talking to the driver, knowing he’d intentionally left some distance between him and us. The car window rolled down to reveal a smaller-framed guy, probably in his late 40’s, kind of shy-looking.
He stuck his head out the window and asked, “Are you ladies okay?”
We explained we were trying to get from the Aria to the MGM, but that we were lost.
“You’re walking in the wrong direction,” he said. “Why don’t you get in? I can take you there.”
My friend said, “Kim, we can’t get into his car. He’s a stranger.” To me? Yes, he was a stranger. But he was also an exit strategy. And our only other immediate options in that moment felt more dangerous. So I turned back to him. “Excuse me, sir, what’s your name?”
“Oh, my name is Ryan. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Hi, I’m Kim. Nice meeting you, too.” I turned back to my friend and said, “His name is Ryan. He’s not a stranger anymore. Get in the car.”
I got in the back, prepared for anything, just in case. Objectively? This was a terrible plan. But Ryan turned out to be a nice, normal guy, who, fortunately for us, was really only wanting to help.
Christmas Trees & Strippers
We arrived at the comedy club late. We opened the doors mid-set. The room was dark except for the stage. Every head turned. Then we stepped directly under two spotlights we didn’t know existed.
I lit up like a Christmas tree in July. My dress was covered in sequins. Like tiny disco balls capturing the light and reflecting it back in fragmented pieces that somehow seemed brighter than the light itself. We immediately grabbed the attention of the comedian on stage, Brad Garrett.
He stopped, mid-set, mic in hand, and said:
“Who are these two strippers who just walked into my show?”
We laughed timidly, nervously, and then did a hurried walk of shame to our seats. Front row, because of course they were.
A few minutes later, my friend checked her phone, leaned over, and whispered:
“Why do I have 25 missed calls from my husband?”
I couldn’t help but start laughing. I tried to stay quiet, but the whole day had finally caught up and come full circle. The gym, the pool, the stress of the mission, the highway median, the sequins, and now the missed calls neither of us knew about… All of it just… flooding into my reflection of the past day all at once. We had just lived two completely different days over the last 12 hours.
Let’s Call It Even
Checking out brought one final absurdity. The hotel charged us hundreds for the mini-bar. We hadn’t touched the liquor; we’d just unknowingly moved things around not realizing the shelves were weighted. We were trying to preserve our leftovers from dinner the first night we were there. And we tried to explain that to the front desk but, they refused to budge.
As I was standing there feeling the frustration of what could have been chalked up to a simple misunderstanding, my friend accidentally dropped her hotel drinking glass. It shattered across the lobby floor. We both looked at each other and silently agreed: Let’s call it even. We paid the bill and left.
Somewhere Between Takeoff and Landing
On the flight home, everything felt recalibrated. Vegas reminded me there’s a version of myself that exists outside routine—one that says yes a little faster, laughs at herself when she’s not taking herself too seriously, and knows that sometimes the best way forward is without a map.
At the time, we thought it would be the start of a girls’ trip every year.
Then life did what life does.
In 2023, those trips went on hold when my dad was diagnosed with brain cancer. Suddenly time wasn’t something abstract anymore. It was measured differently. Paid attention to differently. Protected differently.
But this year, we’re starting again.
Sedona. The Grand Canyon. A different backdrop. Probably fewer sequins. Hopefully fewer emergencies. But the same purpose that started all of this in the first place: to show up for the life you actually have, not the one you keep waiting to happen.
Vegas was wild. It was chaotic and hilarious and, at times, completely ridiculous. But looking back, it mattered for a quieter reason. It happened when it did. Before everything changed again. It became a reminder that some of the best moments in life aren’t the ones you orchestrate—they’re the ones you decide not to postpone.
Copyright © 2026 Kimberly Beth Thomas. All rights reserved.