In May, Perry is making the annual trek to Vegas for the International Council of Shopping Centers Convention. (This is far superior to the annual trek he used to make with his prior employer to "World Of Concrete." Trust me, the shopping center people give much better trade show swag than the concrete people.)
I am accompanying him since the date coincides with our anniversary, and we're staying in a really nice hotel. We're also going all out with the shows - I'm talking Cher, "O", and Tom Jones. (Go ahead, scoff if you must, but I know you're all jealous. It's Vegas!)
We'll be eating in some fantabulous dining establishments (and I don't mean the all-you-can-eat buffets). Plus I love the desert sun, and while I'm not a gambler, I might try to recoup some of what I've lost in my 401(k) at the nickel slots while Perry is at the trade show.
When I signed up to go to Vegas I was looking forward to a good time. But by May, walking may be something I do only in one-minute increments. I've already gotten to the point where I call in to meetings that happen in the building across the street. Since Perry does most of the grocery shopping I have not yet had the supermarket scooter experience, but I'm sure it's in my near future. I never leave home without a cane.
So you'd think it would be no big deal to see the e-mail confirmation from our hotel:
"Dear Mr. Levine,
Your wife's wheelchair will be ready on (date) ..."
Ouch. That's how I feel about cruising the strip with the top down ... in my shiny geriatric chair. That's right, me and all the other "mature" ladies who hang out in Vegas, although I have a feeling most of them are going to be more mobile than I will be. And suddenly this is not sounding like such a fun vacation any more.
Although I do think I am eligible for priority seating at the Tom Jones show.