I was commenting to the stewardess that our plane full of children had all the charm of a daycare center. She said that working the flights to and from Disneyworld is an excellent method of birth control. Amen. Before I had my wings clipped by having kids, I use to travel around quite a bit. I was lucky. Coming home always left me feeling a bit melancholy, but not this time. I couldn’t wait to walk in my front door. I miss my bed, my books, my city and even, in an abusive-relationship kind of way, my long train ride.
I spent the trip vacillating between feeling a bit put-off by the whole scene and being emotionally overwhelmed when I watched my children. I had to push down tears more than once, much to my annoyance. If I spend three weeks there instead of just five days, will I turn into a monumental pussy and start listening to Dan Fogelberg albums and cry at sunsets? This damages the whole reluctant-father thing that I wear around my neck like a chain. Thank God I got the hell out of there.
I have an idiot tan. It looks like I drew a circle around the base of my neck. North of that meridian, I am a bronzed Adonis. South of that demarcation line, I am as white as a fish’s belly. The kids loved everything about the trip but, personally, it’s not how I get my kicks. Give me a beach and a book, a casino or a walk down The Strand any day over the squeaky clean, homogenous fun we just had. I saw adults there without children walking through the Magic Kingdom. Apparently, you can voluntarily go to Disneyworld even if you don’t have to. Can you imagine? Actually, I get that. It’s a slice of Americana and I can understand why someone would want to see it, but I can’t relate at all.