I spent two hours the other day desperately trying to reattach the “O” key to the keyboard of my laptop, after I removed it to free a crumb from underneath. Frustrated, and unable to figure out what was wrong with the key, I put it aside and gave up.
A few hours later, I awoke from a nap with new enthusiasm, and decided to try again. I reattached it on the first try. The problem? I tried, for two hours, to reattach the key upside down.
Clearly, I don’t do sick well. I don’t do idle time very well, either.
Among my musings today, pondering my overwhelming and inextinguishable desire to visit Walt Disney World right now, despite the child-to-adult ratio in my house, and the fact that my children, were they to join me, would have no idea what was going on, and worse, wouldn’t remember one moment of our trip.
Now, slow down. I know what you’re thinking. I’m sure you had me pegged as a Disney World naysayer, a hater, an antiestablishment revolutionary. Well, you’re half right.
For years, I scoffed about The Happiest Place on Earth. I was zealous in my position that Disney World was a contrived, corporate preparation, whose only function was to fleece every visitor, immediately and theatrically, of all his money. I refused to watch Disney movies after the age of five. I refused to sing along to impromptu verses of Under the Sea on the school bus. I refused to say ‘Awww…’ when others named their pets after Disney characters. I flat-out refused. I was hardcore.
When I was twenty or twenty-one, I experienced the, ahem, magic, of Disney, for the first time. I don’t know what happened to me, but the moment I crossed that gate, I was in love. In love with the manicured grounds, the music, the gift shops, the fireworks, and every ray of sunlight that danced over my skin. I loved Disney World. Loved it. And would cap every trip off with plans for the next.
I loved Disney World so much that I began bringing people with me. People who hated Disney.
I fancied myself the Pied Piper of Disney World. I was determined to convince the staunchest, most Ramones-loving, vintage-shoe-wearing, edamame-munching friend I had, that Disney World would impress on many levels, but most importantly, on the heart. Sure, I had to deal with the sarcasm, the jokes, the rolling eyes. I grinned and bore it. But in each instance, I’m proud to say, I was able to win them over.
I’ve been creating Disney World converts for well over ten years now, and though I remain impressed by this distinction, I haven’t yet had the occasion to work this magic on my husband.
Another trout who swims upstream, my husband is a complicated creature. He loves animation, but had, until he met me, shunned all things Disney. I’ve worked him in slowly, via movies and Pixar, and an occasional reluctant stumble into the Disney Store. I’ve used desensitization techniques such as mingling my many (many) Tinkerbell mugs with his action figures, and tossing my stuffed Mike Wazowski in with the babies’ toys. And I think it’s starting to work.
Trouble is, I can’t seem to get there. Hell, I can’t seem to get anywhere since I started spitting out children like a vending machine. He and I had an amazing overnight to Boston lined up for this past weekend, which was bashed to bits by my gall bladder issue. We even tried, and failed miserably, to jet off to Florida for two or three days last summer. That time was spent moving from our comfortable, quiet two-bedroom apartment to our loud, miserable three-bedroom apartment, from which I can now not wait to get out.
And now we’re staring down the barrel of another move, a home purchase, and all requisite crap-I-don’t-understand that must be done to bring the house up to speed structurally. And then, inevitably, something else. Or we’ll actually have the presence of mind to plan something, but deer will fall from the sky into the engines of the plane, or Florida will break off and sink into the ocean. Because life’s not fair.
And I’m in a dig-my-heels-in and pout, Veruca Salt frame of mind right now. And a little cranky that every break we carve out for ourselves gets spackled with some sort of insanity, or you know, necessary activity like finding a home we all fit in. Whatever.
Bottom line? I miss Disney World. It’s a booster for my jaded, overwrought spirit. And I really wanted my husband to experience the same, as I did, as an adult without children. But that ship has long since sailed, and this is the joy we’re meant for right now, I suppose.
So we will take our breaks as and when we receive them, and comfort ourselves with the promise of a spacious, appropriately appointed domicile, and we’ll fall down the rabbit hole of home improvement and saving for the future and navigating life with a new set of responsibilities, like landscape grading. And we’ll be fine for now, taking things as they come.
But I will get back there someday. Soon, I hope. And watching four faces light up simultaneously just might prove to be more rewarding than the adults-only shindig I imagined.