When my husband first proposed the idea of traveling to Las Vegas, I met his suggestion with severe apprehension and haughty disdain. As a self-confessing prude, cultural snob, and “fun-hater” (as my husband, Jason, commonly refers to me), a town with the epithet of “Sin City” certainly did not sit high on my list of must-see destinations. Somehow, I was convinced that if I merely set foot in Las Vegas I inadvertently would transform into a pole dancer answering only to the pseudonym of Electra.

My aversion to Las Vegas ran deep. As a WWJD-bracelet-wearing teenager I was fairly certain that Jesus would not be caught cozying up to a Wheel of Fortune slot machine in Vegas any time soon. And although you might be relieved to know that I retired the Go God! antics some time ago, stories of bachelorette parties gone bad, quickie weddings à la Britney Spears, and HBO documentaries featuring Nevada brothels did not turn me into a Vegas convert. On the contrary, my interpretation of Las Vegas consisted of seedy images of busty women, horny men, and flying Elvises.

To make matters worse, my less-than-refined relations loved Las Vegas. The more my crude uncles raved about the cocktail waitresses at the Luxor the less I ever wanted to rake up a Players’ Club comp card let alone be sighted in the infamous city of sin. Whereas my paternal family members simply couldn’t get enough of motorcycle rallies, NASCAR events, and Keystone Light, I took a certain pride in appreciating the finer things in life, such as poetry readings, modern art museums, and sauvignon blanc. To travel to Las Vegas would do nothing but align me with the hoi polloi, and I wanted none of it.

So, when Jason’s employer slated him to teach an ultrasound course at the MGM Grand Las Vegas, I had a choice to make. One: Remain firm to my anti­–Las Vegas convictions and stay home polishing the silver in preparation for my next Emily Post appreciation dinner; or two: Throw out my propriety and turtlenecks in exchange for an all-expenses-paid trip to the Vanity Fair that is Las Vegas. I guess you could call me a sellout. In preparation for my descent into hell otherwise known as a Vegas vacation, I did what any self-respecting prude would do: I complained. Yes, I whined and whimpered and protested all too much—a prude is prone to hyperbole, mind you. Moreover, one does have a reputation to maintain, and I certainly did not want to send the message to my fellow Harvard alums and art gala committee members that—gasp!—I was actually looking forward to a Vegas itinerary.

Once Jason finally got me on the airplane I went so far as to enter into a complete gambling-bashing diatribe during the beverage service of our Vegas-bound flight. Jason, always a perfect gentleman—especially around the geriatric female crowd—made a special conciliatory effort to help one woman with her bags after I uncouthly criticized “Las Vegas or Bust” t-shirts in front of her. (Note to self: Do not make rude comments about little old ladies wearing iron-on logos in front of little old ladies wearing iron-on logos.)

When the city of Las Vegas finally came into view from the airplane (none too soon for Jason, I might add), I have to admit that I giddily peered out the window to take a good look at the nighttime aerial view. What I saw was beautiful: a city clearly illuminated in the darkness amidst a vast and empty desert landscape. The absurdly close proximity of the airport to the actual Vegas Strip, however, quickly pulled me out of my revelry. From the air, the oversized casino hotels appeared to sit directly on the runway as if one could literally deplane and run straight to the poker table at Circus Circus. Although, of course, this is not exactly the case, McCarran Airport does assuage serious gamblers’ urges by offering multitudes of slot machines in the lobby immediately upon disembarking. Aforementioned “Las Vegas or Bust”–lady took full advantage.

Make no mistake about it; gambling is definitely The Thing in Las Vegas. During one of my trips to this gambling mecca of the world, I was flabbergasted when the electricity temporarily went out at our hotel. But no worries! A generator ensured that all of the slot machines kept right on humming even as we guests were temporarily denied access to our keyless swipe-entry rooms. The casinos cleverly are arranged in a mazelike labyrinth guaranteeing at least five wrong turns and a few superfluous elevator rides before actually finding your room. This meandering, of course, leads to a bevy of temptation in the form of Black Jack tables, slot machines, and souvenir shops hawking coasters that read: “Vegas! Liquor up front, poker in the rear.” (Now, as an etiquette stickler, I am always an advocate of the all-important coaster, but in this case, I think I will go without.)

Another hazard for a prude in Vegas is the blatant promotion of call girls and nighttime entertainment. As an unsuspecting and decorous Midwestern tourist during my first sojourn down the Strip, I naively accepted (with a courteous “Thank you!” no less) all of the literature handed to me by steely and hard-working hawkers only to end up with a handful of “business cards” featuring overexposed women by the names of Misty, Candy, Chastity, and the like. I now know to keep on walking with ne’er a stretched-out hand; a prude would never be caught unawares with the phone number of The Pleasure Palace in her wallet or rolodex. Similarly, my husband made the novice’s mistake of engaging in awkward conversation with the overly zealous street vendors. “Where are you folks from?” the preppy-clad pushers called out. “Iowa!” Jason enthusiastically replied. One time-share seminar later and we are now official experts at avoiding all eye contact and open-ended questions while promenading along the Strip—even if two free tickets to Barry Manilow and the chance to own a quasi-private piece of real-estate heaven are involved.

I knew I had been in Las Vegas for too long when I found myself pondering the advantages of legalized prostitution while waiting in the checkout lane at one of the MGM’s Star Lane Shops. That’s the thing about Vegas. Even a self-respecting prude will eventually find herself standing in a ridiculously long line with a stockpile of plastic refrigerator magnets and chocolate poker chips in her hands contemplating the pros and cons of the world’s oldest profession. (Perhaps my line of thinking was inspired by the scantily clad woman who could only have been an escort who sat near me at the Celine Dion concert the night before—the slinky red dress and four-inch clear plastic hooker heels were a dead giveaway.)

I happened to have a lot of surprises in store for me during my trip to the “Entertainment Capital of the World.” One of the biggest was the fact that, despite my arrogant disposition and multiple attempts not to like Las Vegas, I actually came to enjoy this desert oasis of a town more than I ever could have expected. So, when Jason again had a Las Vegas conference on the roster for the next year, I not only wholeheartedly agreed to join him, but I also successfully lured one of his more conservative colleagues to Sin City with the promise that it “wouldn’t be that bad.” I was appalled to learn, however, that upon her arrival, she and her husband threw open the blinds to their Caesar’s Palace hotel room only to find a gigantic seventeen-story-high photo of Toni Braxton’s crotch peering back at them from the façade of the Flamingo Hotel and Casino. Sometimes it is best just to keep the blinds closed, I suppose.

Notwithstanding its bawdy reputation and self-extolled Sin City status, what I have come to love about Las Vegas is exactly that which I thought I would hate. I now rave about its all-out audacity and its ability not to take itself so seriously—both lessons of which I constantly need reminding. The bold and carefree attitude that Las Vegas imbues has a knack for somehow making people nicer and friendlier and less judgmental than what they are like in the real world. I have come to realize that, as oxymoronic as it sounds, Las Vegas is, in all actuality, a haven for gamblers, club hoppers, and prudes alike. And what, really, could be more of any oxymoron than a prude in Sin City?

Although I have yet to turn into a navel-baring pole dancer as I had initially feared, Las Vegas has taught me instead to lighten up, and it has allowed me a few temporary and much-needed respites from my own prudish reality. I never would have guessed that I would be counting the days until my next Vegas vacation, but I surprisingly now try to visit this desert town at least once a year, if anything to avoid the propriety of daily life. In fact, my next trip to Nevada is just a few calendar months away, and I am already in the midst of planning a full Vegas itinerary—and this next time, this Sin City prude just may decide to have all of her friends call her Electra.