The words "responsible adult" and "Vegas" just don’t go together.

I’ve been married for almost 10 years. You wanna know how I know that it’s been almost 10 years? Because my husband invited me to join him in Vegas yesterday and I didn’t want to go.

The Golfer is in Vegas for a tournament and called last night to say, “Why don’t you throw the boys in the car after school tomorrow and come to Vegas?” I love the fact that my husband misses us (me) and wants us (me) to be with him, but since I’ve become a mother and home owner, I’m not good at being spontaneous. I’m just not a “fly by the seat of your pants, moment to moment” kind of girl. That’s just not me.

It’s not that I didn’t want to go. It’s that getting there would take a lot of effort and I just don’t have the energy. I’m boring and old and just don’t feel like driving for 5 hours in the car with my kids for a mere 36 hours in Vegas to only get back in the car and drive another 5 hours home.

Just take me out and shoot me because the fun part of me has apparently died.

It wasn’t always this way. There used to be a time when I was ready to go at a moments notice. In college I’d be waiting with car keys in hand for the Golfer would call after practice and ask me to come over. Am I ashamed to admit that I was so eager and anxious to spend time with him? Not really. I was in love–crazy college love–and all I wanted more than anything was to spend time with my Golfer.