There’s a story here that’s only partially mine to tell. I’m gonna tell my part.

Last night, as we were headed to our fancy dinner at The Stratosphere, we got stuck in an elevator for about an hour somewhere near the 14th floor of The Flamingo.

It should be said, it was not the fault of either the hotel or the elevator. It was not mechanical difficulties, we brought this on ourselves.

After the initial shock when it stopped and the doors didn’t open, we tried our room key to see if we could get it moving again.

We couldn’t.

We used the call button and the woman asked how many of us were in the elevator…just us, The 3 Musketeers.

She asked if we were hotel guests, what room we were in, and if any of us needed medical attention.

We didn’t.

Then she said they’re gonna work to get us out, we should all sit down on the floor, it’s gonna be awhile, and it’s gonna be hot in there.

It was.

And yes, the thought crossed my mind that we could potentially fall to our demise.

Yes, I had visions of climbing out the top and being pulled from the elevator shaft, like a Keanu Reeves movie.

Yes, I thought about all the things in my life I haven’t done yet and still want to do.

But I also felt incredible concern for these two most important humans in the elevator with me…and their safety, their hopes and dreams, their peace of mind and soul.

And you know what I wasn’t thinking about?

My past.

The only thing that mattered in those moments was believing in the power of manifestation and that we would get out of this okay.

I kept intentionally pushing out the fear in my heart with the strongest sensation of genuine love I have ever felt in my life…and, if these were in fact gonna be our last moments together, I wanted to make sure we kept it positive and they both knew just how much I love them.

No frustration, no anxiety, no anger, no blame, no fault, just love…and maybe one eye roll…and a little head shake.

I had to call and change our dinner reservation a few times, telling the hostess we were stuck in an elevator, pushing it back as late as possible to allow time for us to get across town, park the car, walk through the casino, and take yet another long elevator ride up to the 107th floor of the Strat.

We sat on the floor and talked about our favorite music, played a few songs on our phones, we took a video for posterity, but I’m not gonna post it here. There’s details Jen and the kiddo have to tell in their own versions of the story.

What I can tell you is…the elevator started up again, we were lowered to the lobby where we were met by security and escorted to the front desk. They took my ID and asked us to wait for the manager while a second security guard took our names and made sure we didn’t run away.

And that is how we learned that it is illegal to jump in an elevator in Nevada…

They had video footage of the shenanigans that caused the elevator to stop, so we had to pay a pretty extravagant fine to the hotel for the inconvenience of causing a hullabaloo and having to summon the elevator rescue squad.

I don’t know if we’ve been flagged now as ne’er-do-wells on some kind of casino elevator banned-list moving forward…but it’d be a small price to pay for the rich conversations and connection we made as a result, the lessons and opportunities to check in with ourselves and each other, both in the moment and afterwards at dinner, about the importance of taking responsibility and also what really matters in this life.

Both Jen and I ordered very dirty martinis with blue cheese olives, the kiddo had a few Shirley temples…we ate steak and lobster mac and cheese with gratitude…and luckily the Strat had elevator chaperones, both on the way up and back, to save us from ourselves.

We’re okay…we might even be better than ever before.

In the words of the kiddo, this experience “really elevated our vacation….” And now it seems we’ve set the bar for him about what happens in Sin City.