1288 WHEN CONSIDERING ATTITUDES IN NEED OF CHANGE, DETAILED ACCURACY ISKEY TO COMMUNICATING WITH ATTENTION TO CLARITY

2015
Very little time for writing over this past weekend.  Why not?  From Wednesday through Saturday, Will and I enjoyed ourselves at an international Ortho convention in Vegas.  And having benefited from convention rates, we stayed at the Wynn, which is one of the most whimsically decorated hotels I've ever seen.  With every stroll taken through the Wynn, my spirit soars as light heartedly as if I'm the heroine, who will inevitably enjoy a happy ending as the last moments of an animated Disney film wind down.  Well actually, if detailed accuracy is key to communicating with attention to clarity, I had a great time in Vegas, Will not so much.  Why not?  Because he'd packed an old mindset that we'd once shared until I shed the old for a new frame of mind which has become my very own.

Let me fill you in on changes in Vegas that changed our minds about Vegas, over close to fifty years:
Our first trip to Vegas, which proved personal rather than professional in nature, took place in the summer of 1968.  Upon walking into the lobby of the Sahara Hotel, we, being a couple of Midwesterners, were stunned by the onslaught of lights amid the din of ding-ding-dings of countless one armed bandits, and, later, as we drove down the strip on our very first evening in Nevada's gambling Mecca, we found ourselves memorized by the magical barrage of technicolored, neon lights, flashing on and off, beneath a darkened sky so clear of urban soot and grime as to have mirrored the sense of star-studded wonderment shining forth from our eyes.  (As much as we continue to be a deeply devoted pair, my adventures into self awareness has offered me reason grow to be a highly individuated I.)

So, anyway, back in 1968, Will and I were in a crowded, high rise elevator, zooming up to our room after our first day of sunning around the desert pool where the sweltering temperature had climbed to heights beyond 105 degrees when I fainted dead away.  OMG! exclaimed bystanders, peering down at that which appeared to be my lifeless form, lying on the floor, while all, who were crammed inside the small square metal box, which continued to be conveyed up, up, up, heard one voice call out—Someone call a doctor!  Will, kneeling over me, looked up at many pairs of frightened eyes, belonging to this group of strangers, who, like us, had spent the afternoon sunning, shopping or gambling, and calmly, reassuringly said:  No worries.  She'll be fine.  Then, upon reaching our floor, Prince Charming roused the sleeping princess, gently, before leading her out of the open door, where a very woozy me managed to sway toward our room, and after laying the young princess tenderly on our bed, the prince offered me water while suggesting that I rest.  Actually, had this man of few words spared a few more, Will could have relaxed the concern of every observer 100% by saying:  I am a doctor, and my wife is newly pregnant with our first child ...

Faint or not, we fell in love with the glamor, which cloaked the underbelly of Vegas, during the sixties, when sundown saw temperatures drop while couples, awakening from sun kissed naps, readied their sunburnt selves (never having heard of skin cancer or sunscreen) to saunter through the casinos, bedecked in finery, as we made our way toward the elegance of velveted booths in supper clubs, where palms were greased in order to command a coveted table abutting center stage, where water-downed cocktails and headlining entertainment attended to our pleasures, and when I say that men and women were dressed to the nines in sophisticated suits, ties, and long, flowing gowns that touched the toes of our dyed-to-match heels—I kid you not!

Twenty years later, Vegas felt more sleazy than we could believe, causing Will and me—by now a mother of three teens—to grimace with distaste upon spying toddlers, sprawled fast asleep in strollers, inhaling stale, smoke-soaked air at midnight while their parents, in jeans and flip flops, trolled gaming tables, hoping to strike it rich before the sun dawned on the strip, which had appeared to grow more and more tawdry to my frame of mind, over time.  Ugh!  I'd think, where is my magic wand?  Had I packed it, it would wave over the minds of these parents, who are in need of whisking their families off to a wholesome, kid-friendly place like Disneyland, for Pete's sake!  And as I couldn't create change for the better on the spot, I remember frustration on the rise as in:  Get me out-a-here-quick!  As to Will,  he couldn't abide the fact that the elegance of intimate supper clubs had ballooned into giant auditoriums, where exorbitantly priced tickets saw us climbing up to our seats in the nosebleed section.  Humph!  He'd growl, I can barely make out the stage.  The performers look like ants!  I'd enjoy this show so much more at home on TV!  And as he was right, I'd have to agree.

Over the years, laws were passed against parents trolling tables with exhausted kids on their hips, and though I, too, miss the intimate nature of head-lining entertainment in supper clubs, and though Will and I value every buck we've ever earned, which is why we get no kicks from watching money, transformed into chips, disappearing into thin air, somehow, my adventurous thrill has been resuscitated whenever one of Will's professional meetings lands us in Vegas, and if you asked why that's true, I'd surmise:  My critical eye—which has learned to accept the rolling nature of modifications that are perpetually in a state of flux as change moves forward—has mellowed to the point of focusing all of my energy on relaxing poolside, enjoying dear friends, sumptuous dinners and spectacular entertainment, while Will's attitude remains mired in longing for that which has passed, suggesting why he's not yet banished his angst.

Whereas I look forward to relaxing afternoons with a refreshing, ice cold diet coke, whiskey sour, calorie-packed margarita, lean and spicy Bloody Mary in hand while basking within the gorgeous, well-tended, garden-like, tropical paradise, surrounding crystal clear pools, where I, wearing a wide brimmed hat, slather on sunscreen before languishing in bubbling hot tubs before returning to my high rise room with a view, where, after snacking on a healthy assortment of nuts, washed down with agua, this princess indulges in a late afternoon nap before rising and grooming to meet dear friends—with whom we've kept in touch since Will's surgical residency days—Will holds stubbornly to his grudge against change, rebelling against that which is missing rather than rejoicing over that which we can afford to enjoy now that our kids are grown and, much to our amazement, our golden years are upon us, so ... in hopes of inspiring 'my date' to drop his angst at least enough to turn his glum frown upside down, I ask him to call me Snow White.

When a very surprised Will asks:  Why?  I reply:  Because I plan to accept a date with Doc or Happy, tonight ... Not Grumpy!!  Quickly, Will quips back with a twinkle in his eye:  Snow loved Grumpy, too.  Yes, I agree, but tonight, Grumpy's in timeout, and if Doc hopes to end this night with a bang, he'd be wise to find his Happy face, toute suite!  (Though the brothers' Grimm version of Snow White is rated G, that's not true of mine—and deciding to do my best to change His Grumpiness into His Horniness, well, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas— ✈️capisce?)

As my upbeat nature proves more contagious than Will's grumpiness, my spirit lifts his, and in addition to thoroughly enjoying an awesome show at the Wynn (Le Reve), the princess and prince enjoy several dinner engagements with an assortment of old friends, and though negative thoughts of changes in Vegas are no longer empowered to turn my smile upside down, Doc's bah-humbug frown re-appears,  now and then, when reason arises to compare yesteryear with right now.

Though Doc's grumpy attitude had once had the power to bend my smile out of shape, this is one princess bride who has learned to make beautiful music by creating a harmonic blend of humor with clarity, and thus does Snow remind the guy, who squires her around town, that as long as Grumpy is a no show much more often than not, Snow feels eager to invite Doc in for a night cap—then as she dims the lights, which does much to lower my age, we reach the happy ending of today's true story.

Though we've flown home, feeling utterly relaxed, reality suggests that that unresolved problem, which will take time to tame and is not mine to name, is still in need of addressing—and in addition to that,  I hope my think tank will feel ready to summarize the three hour brainstorming session that connected the minds of Dino's twins with mine when next we meet ...
Wishing you a five star Sunday!
Your friend, Snow—uhhh, I mean—Annie