A Vegas Story

Vegas, for me, is a symbol of freedom and personal growth. For 25 years, I lived in Lakeland, Florida. Lakeland is a beautiful little city, and I miss hanging out with the ducks at Lake Morton and living in my adorable 1920s garage apartment with a wall of windows and a view of year-round greenery. Despite all of that, a part of me always itched to move somewhere else, and I tried and failed multiple times before I made my way here.

When I graduated high school, I thought that I would go to college in Philadelphia. I did, for a day, and then I flipped out and flew home when I realized how financially and emotionally unprepared I was, at eighteen, to live alone in a large, strange city full of honking cars and people who were not interested in helping me move my luggage. When I did enroll in college, I found myself at Florida Southern, a small private school where I once attended preschool and took swimming lessons. For four more years, I could stay in the Lakeland comfort zone.

When I graduated college, I had another decision to make. I applied to a number of library schools, so I had many choices as to where I might live: North Carolina, South Carolina, Alabama, Washington D.C., Tampa, or Tallahassee. I was sure I could get myself to move to one of these exciting new places. Ultimately, I decided on Tallahassee for the in-state tuition and FSU's good reputation. It was in Florida, but it was a good six hour drive from home. Certainly, I could handle that and find a little adventure along the way! Thankfully, FSU offered a distance program, so when I started hyperventilating a week prior to my big Tallahassee move, I just let the school know that I’d prefer to enroll as a distance student, and I could stay right where I was—no courage required. I decided to cling to Lakeland like Linus clings to his blanket.

Two years later, I found myself grateful that I enrolled in the distance program because I was finally ready to leave Florida. I wound up in a long-distance relationship with a long-time good friend who had moved to Vegas for his job during the same August that I spent hyperventilating over Tallahassee. He wasn’t leaving Nevada any time soon, and we were determined to get married. Suddenly, the decision didn’t make me hyperventilate; however, friends and family felt confident that I would take a brief Vegas vacation and return home to my blanket when the panic attack set in.

The first time I visited Vegas for a job interview, it freaked me out. Everything looked blazing and orange, the air was devoid of humidity, and Matt, my soon-to-be fiancé, lived in an interesting neighborhood with a revolving wall-bathroom door, a courtyard decorated with old lockers, and a tree spray-painted blue (his stepsisters thought it was gang related, but he just had an eccentric landlord). For a day or two, I did ponder calling the whole thing off. I was afraid I might flip out again and meet my family’s expectations.

The mountains were the clincher. As I sat in the airport waiting to return to Lakeland one last time, hazy purple clouds floated around the mountains and misty rain fell in the distance. The airport terminal offered an awesome view, and part of me fell in love with this city. Suddenly, I was sad to leave. I had found a sense of comfort and security in my new home.

March 13 marked my two year anniversary as a Vegas resident. What started as a crazy, impulsive adventure has evolved into everyday life. Now I have a husband here, and my family has begun to migrate westward. We live in the suburbs now instead of the cinder block apartment with the revolving wall, and sometimes I miss the old place. I’ve adjusted to the air and learned to wear lotion (for the record, my hair is very happy with the dryness). Still, when I see the mountains, whether they’re basking in the sun or shrouded in misty purple clouds, I remember the sense of awe I felt that day in the airport, and I remember that this place is beautiful and full of new possibilities.