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A Sensory Sensitive Introvert Goes to Vegas
And survives to tell the tale
The assault on my senses begins the moment I step off the plane. The slot machines are clustered at the airport gate in all their glaring glory, blinking against the incessant hum of club music. Such flashing lights and pulsing beats are so ubiquitous in Vegas, one might think they emanate from its very soil.
Soil. Who am I kidding? There is no soil in Las Vegas. It is a city sealed tightly in concrete, from which the hulking casinos and hotels sprout, blooming with screens and neon.
I suppose all the glimmering and flickering is supposed to lure us in. Clearly, the strategy works, but I am not part of the Vegas target market. I don’t like spending money, much less losing it. I hate shopping, especially at needlessly expensive stores. I can’t stand crowds. I like to go to shows, but I prefer intimate venues whose names don’t include the words “stadium” or “arena.” While I don’t mind club music on the rare occasion that I find myself at a club, I don’t need it clogging my ears in an airport, or by a pool, or while trying to enjoy a meal, or simply while walking from Point A to Point B.
This is not my first trip to Vegas, and unfortunately it won’t be my last. I’ve been here twice before. I’ll be back, reluctantly, in July. (Vegas in July? I don’t…
