Disney World: The Dark Side

Enochlophobia – a fear of large crowds                                                                                            (which, while I can tolerate it, is one of my special quirks)

So, I took my daughter to Disney World this weekend, and she went nuts! I, however, should probably not be allowed in places like that.

Why, you ask? Well, I think we’ve already established that for me people are only  acceptable in short doses or from a distance. Neither of those things exist at the Magic Kingdom. Still, my daughter was over the moon, so I tried to keep up with her enthusiasm. (I may fail at motherhood often, but I keep on trying.)

I mean, I like Disney. I’ve watched most of the movies, even the new Star Wars, and I have rewatched them with my kids. I know all the princesses; although, I prefer the villains most of the time. Seriously, give me a pissed off Maleficent over the sugar-sweet Aurora any day. I’m just saying, I’m not an anti-Disneyite. I’m just anti-people.

Regardless, I put on my happy face, grabbed my daughter’s pudgy little hand, and dove into the crowds. She saw the monorail and was like “Cool!” so I was like “Cool!” She met  princess Merida and was like, “That was awesome!” So, I took pictures and said, “That was so awesome!” We flew rocket ships and were like “hell yeah!” Well, I was was – in my head, not out loud, because she doesn’t cuss yet.

But the tide turned when we rode the Buzz Lightyear ride and had to shoot the aliens. My girl got scared and screeched into my ear. Her shrieks were like ice picks stabbing into the soft tender palate of my ear drums, and I spent the rest of the ride with my hands over her ears to protect her from the aliens and trying to stop her from making that God-awful noise again.

The rest of the afternoon turned into a series of smiles with meltdowns in between.

That’s when I began to see the dark side of Disney. The people I tried to ignore before, the ones who walked across my path and stopped right in front of me. The fast passers with money enough to skip to the front of the line. The ones pushing ten year olds in strollers. They all began to grate against my already sensitive social anxiety.

My mind began its internal dialogue, ranting at all the socially unconscious pedestrians: “What is wrong with you? Don’t stop walking in front of me!” “Why does Disney have to shove the fast pass people in my face? I may not have as much money, but I still paid an assload to get in, too.” “If the kid can’t walk, don’t bring him to Disney! What the hell kind of parent are you?” (This last bit did not apply to handicapped kids, I promise.)

When I saw what looked like a bum sleeping on a bench near the carousel, I was done. Thankfully, so was my daughter.

We headed back to the monorail and then to our Peter Pan parking spot. She had stories to tell, and I had pictures to post. We have memories that we can look back on with rose-colored glasses.

But the exhaustion after a day like that is so much more than physical for me. Keeping my anxiety under control, not running from the park screaming, or huddling in a corner crying was a challenge, but days like that are not about me. They are about her, and that’s all that matters.