Finding My Happy Place

Ah, Disneyland. The Happiest Place on Earth. Why is it that the older I am, the more dubious I get about your motto? There is something about a day at Disneyland that’s like a litmus test of my aging process.

I have hazy, happy memories of childhood trips- excitedly flying through the air with Peter Pan, singing “It’s a Small World”, eventually braving a bounce through Mr. Toad’s Wild Adventure. Getting a Mickey Mouse balloon and a princess souvenir to fall asleep clutching in the way-back of the station wagon.

Of course, I remember with great fondness the endless summer- type joy that accompanied our teenage years at the Magic Kingdom- considering it a success if you got there when it opened and managed to get on every ride (twice!) Seeing if there were any cute boys in line was almost as fun as going on the ride itself, especially if anyone asked you and your friends to sit with them! The junk food, the parades, the souvenirs, the fireworks! At one point, the 80’s dance club (who remembers that?!) with its high-tech tv screens showing close-ups of all the Aquanet- soaked hairdos and miniskirts. The regret and sorrow when, alas, the announcements came on telling us in oh-so-polite Disney fashion that it was time to kindly point our sugared selves towards the exit.

Then there was the milestone trip when you went to Disneyland with your significant other, smitten to have someone to sit next to on every ride. Sharing a slice of childhood you both experienced separately, but could now smoosh together like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Holding hands, stealing kisses on the Journey to the Center of the Earth (we all know there was NO other good reason to go on that ride!)

After the boys were born, there was a renaissance of enthusiasm as we thrilled in watching the wonder of the sights and sounds through their little eyes.  The characters, the parades, the silly songs, even the terror they felt for imagined villains was charmingly sweet, as they perceived the pretend to be real. 

We had the good fortune of meeting up with our dear friends this weekend, who were taking their five year old son to Disneyland for the first time. That was the best thing about the day! However, we ended up sharing the experience with about three million other “guests,” as Disney likes to call us. And for me, that resulted in a downward spiral of the kind of mental and physical angst I most certainly do NOT associate with the happiest anything!

We hit the pavement running around 8am and got into the half- hour long line to park. Somehow, even a few years ago, I don’t recall startling at the sticker shock of just how much cashola they cheerfully ring up for a family of four to enter the turnstyles. This only furthered my puzzlement about how very many people were crammed in line next to us for the same privilege. And, somehow, the obligation to try and get our money’s worth out of the outing hung over my head throughout the day like a lead Mickey balloon.

But, we made it through the gates of California Adventure pretty early and off we ran in an attempt to get on the new Cars ride everyone is so crazy about. When I saw the line wrapping around the buildings almost to the front gates, I knew it would be a long wait to get on. What I didn’t know was THAT was only the line to get a fast pass!! Holy hell!! Do you mean to tell me that I have to wait in an hour- long line to get a ticket that tells me when I can get back in line to actually get ON the ride?!?? This has got to be a joke, or at least a sadistic experiment! I looked around for the hidden cameras, recording the ridiculousness of our actions and found none. (In hindsight, of course there are hidden cameras all over Disneyland, they are watching all the time. I suspect after observing our desperately strange antics day in and day out, they probably aren’t laughing.)

Anyways, intent on making the most of our expensively crowded day, we pressed on and considered it a silver lining that the line for California Screaming was only 45 minutes long. The day continued in this fashion as we jogged from long line to long line- having fun, staving off hunger by getting whatever the emptiest kiosk was peddling, and enjoying the pervasive mayhem. And for a while, time stood still. This would have been magic indeed, except for one thing. I had been checking my watch (technically, my phone) since 10am. I didn’t want to feel that way about it, believe me. What wouldn’t I have given for the day to never end when I was 15?!??

When did I stop viewing the masses as comrade adventurers- excited to be sharing in their excitement- and start seeing the humanity, drifting and darting like atomic lemmings? So much energy it drained to be alert and pay attention to charging stroller wheels, couples stopping dead in their tracks to pull out a map, hacking children yanking free of the hands that held them (oh, the hacking. And the puking –a story for another day. I felt like we were in an overcrowded leper colony on carnival day.)

At the eleventh hour (not a euphemism, we had actually been there eleven hours) I kind of lost it. Hungry, exhausted, and frustrated at myself for feeling so frustrated, I decided that the best thing I could do for my family was to let them go on and enjoy what was left of their dwindling day. So I plunked myself down in a chair and gnawed on the worst breadstick I have ever had the misfortune to eat (how do you mess up a breadstick, really??) and tried to distract myself with thoughts other than Disneyland so I could survive the last and final leg of this never-ending day. (I do know how terribly wrong that sounds, I really do.)

Of course, my mind wandered right to all the circumstances people have survived that were legitimately terrible (and that they hadn’t actually PAID for the privilege of doing) such as surviving without water, food, air conditioning, medications, shelter after a natural disaster. Or being prodded onto cattle cars full of their fellow man, shuttled with no bathrooms, no oxygen to concentration camps. Or, being born into the kind of abject poverty where living is a fluke, a triumph in spite of your conditions and circumstances.

This led, strangely enough, back to the notion of happiness. The thought of the remarkable fortitude of humans throughout the span of time to seek out such a state, regardless of how legitimately they could lament their shortcomings. The thought of pioneers, who bravely forged ahead against resistance, against uncertainty and inconvenience, against famine and disease and paved the way for all who followed. Who manifested their senses into innovation and expression, into art and song and dance, to make the magic in which we seek solace, the magic that we turn to, in hopes of escaping the mundane, the sorrowful realities, the lacking we might otherwise succumb to. (Yes, I AM aware that I was a party of one on the spinning teacup of bizarre- Hey! Finally I found a place with no lines!)

As all stories eventually end, so did my strangely self-imposed funk of a day. My sweet hubby and kids came back to collect their decrepit mother from her stoop and we made it without incident back to the safe haven of my car, which drove us home to our pretty charmed reality. Maybe that’s the difference. The older I get, the more I comprehend that I’m fortunate enough to live in the real fairy tale. As I mature, my notion of what happy looks like has taken on a different significance. Surprisingly quieter, and with ever- so- slightly less bling. Contrary to the ad campaign that was quite effective on me for the better part of my life, perhaps Disneyland isn’t the Happiest Place on Earth anymore. But it certainly ain’t the worst.