Land of Disenchantment

From time to time, my wife is thoughtful enough to point out the fact that she thinks I need therapy. Her list of concerns is quite extensive, but at the moment, the one at the top involves the unfortunate aversion I've always had about going to Disneyland. I really don't care for the Magic Kingdom, and although I've made this perfectly clear, the Mrs has gone ahead and planned our summer vacation around Wally World. Reservations are made, the kids are all fired-up and the fact that I'm dragging my feet about the whole thing has my wife convinced that I'm an evil man, who desperately needs professional help.

Before I proceed with the rest of this slightly amusing little discourse, I thought I'd stop and try to analyze my own problem--the last thing I can afford is therapy. I'll let you be the judge if I'm a candidate for the couch. Here's the deal:

About 90 per cent of the time I'm much happier if I'm the only person around. I'm more than willing to admit that this desire for solitude is, in truth, a fairly common form of laziness. Being around other people takes work. From every day conversation to personal hygiene, socialization involves a lot more effort than it's generally worth. The way I've got it figured, I'm nothing more than a victim of my culture. The reason we love television and movies so much, is because it offers a form of socialization that requires almost no work. We can still feel like we're taking part in the wonderful world around us, while reserving the cherished American right to change the channel.

As for Walt Disney, he was a genius, not because he dreamed up a cool theme park, but because he put most of his efforts into his Movies and TV shows. He knew that the vast majority of us poor slobs would much rather hang around town than drive all the way to his damn Land. It's nice at home. It's easy, leave me alone.

It saddens me a bit, that Walt died years before he had the chance to witness his greatest contribution to mankind--the home video. I really can't imagine how parents made it before the advent of the VCR. Videos are the greatest babysitters ever invented and Walt's movies make it possible to watch along with the kids with out becoming insane. Right now the kids and I are on a huge Mary Poppins kick. What a classic. I must love Mary Poppins, because in the past month I'd guess that I've sat through long stretches of it roughly 400 times. "Chim Chiminy, chim chiminy, chim chim cheree, the kids are behaving and the Boneman is free."

Walt was the man, but for some reason, even when I was a young kid, I didn't like the idea of going to Disneyland. I was like, "Come on Dad, it's just gonna be a big hassle. It's a long drive, it's crowded as hell, you end up standing in line all day in the sun--we'll all be complaining and having to pee the whole time? Seriously man, let's just go to Lagoon and get it over with?" He knew I was right, but there was nothing he could do--it was his turn to be Chevy Chase.

Now it's my turn. My wife is absolutely baffled by the fact that I'm not beside myself with excitement at the prospect of taking my girls on a vacation that they'll remember the rest of their lives. First of all, I spend much of my time with my baby daughters and they've pretty much got it made. They run around all the "live long day" happy as pill bugs, playing with crayons, watching Nick Jr. and taking naps. Trust me--they don't need a vacation. I'm the one who could use a break, and to my way of thinking, a vacation should involve very little other than laying around a fancy swimming pool, drinking Margaritas. Is that so evil? A lousy spoonful of sugar?

My best argument is that if we're going to take the kids to Disneyland, we should wait a few years until they're tall enough to get on the cool rides, and I'm old enough to park in a handicap space. (You can spend an hour just walking through the parking lot.) No one gives a crap about my old-fogey opinions, and to make matters worse my girls are terribly clever. They're both majoring in Walt Disney at the moment, and even though she still poops herself, my youngest daughter can already sing "Supercalifragilistic Expi-aladotious" backwards and forwards--California here I come.

I've thought about trying to appeal to her on her level, "Listen sweety, I know it looks like lots of fun, but what really happens at Disneyland is you spend the whole day strapped to a stroller, sitting in a hot diaper full of piss. Is that what you really want? I hate to tell you this, but Mickey Mouse isn't really a mouse at all, honey--he's just some sweaty loser in a costume--don't you think that's a little scary?" Alas, I've really got to watch what I actually say "out loud"--the wife has already torn out the Yellow Page listing for Psychiatrists and stuck it on the fridge. I'm liable to wind up in a Magic Kingdom of a different kind.

The truth is, for the last five years of my "first" marriage, I owned a home in Anaheim that was only about a mile from the Magic Kingdom. It's a small world after all. Unfortunately for me, my drive to and from work was made considerably less enchanting due to Disney-related traffic. What little romance Disneyland still sparked in my inner child, evaporated like a twenty dollar bill in Fantasyland. Believe me, "The Happiest Place on Earth," is not in a very good neighborhood. Drive about 5 blocks in any direction from Disneyland and you're asking to get your car jacked.

I'm afraid I'm quite doomed to this fate. The only way I can think of to get out of it would be to fake my own death--and that looks bad to the inlaws when you show up after a few weeks-- "I'm feeling much better now, thanks."

I'll be fine, I've spent nearly a dozen years of my life as a married man, so I've gotten pretty good at faking it. You betcha, I'll smile all the way to our California Adventure, I'll be Mr. Zippity Doo Dah, sporting Mickey Mouse ears, and ever at the ready with the bottle of SPF 50. Who knows? I might even become careless enough to have myself a vacation I'll remember the rest of my life. Naaaaaaaa . . .