The elevator in Planet Hollywood's South Tower is taking forever to stop on the 15th floor. OK — it's likely running no slower than normal, but when your bangs are matted to your forehead and the rest of your hair is pulled back into a ponytail that shouts, "I don't normally carry a hairbrush and thank God I had a tie," minutes seem like hours. I'm waiting with two tourists. They have rolling suitcases with them and are, I presume, checking out of the hotel early. Me? I'm carrying only a camera bag and a smirk.
Once we descend in the elevator to the casino floor, a stranger scans my outfit: pink disco ball necklace, wrinkled black dress, now-itchy bright pink party tights, dancing boots. "Heeey, baby," he offers. I ignore. I may reek of last night's party, but I'm not nearly as exciting as appearance suggests.
Like so many locals, my new decade began on the clock. I'd walked the Strip snapping photos of revelers before covering Krave nightclub's celebration. I filed my photos and stories from a hotel room as the sun began to rise, then opted for a power nap before making the trek back to the 'burbs.
It's a New Year's celebration on company dime and time, but damn, if this isn't the longest walk of shame I've ever taken.
Oh, Vegas, you did me good.