Disney World: You Broke My Brain and Crushed My Soul

Let me start by saying that I, like most children who live in America, have experienced many happy times in Walt Disney World.  Family members tell me of happy hours spent shaking Mickey's hand and learning about the countries of the world through repetitive song.  These pleasant childhood days are lost to me, as all memories prior to the atrocity of my last visit to Orlando are completely erased.  Pleasant thoughts of the past surrender when confronted by the  Optimus Prime of Clusterfails (OPC Day).

I take most of the blame. A great deal of trauma could have been avoided if I had just admitted to myself and others that I am NOT good-natured and do not view life as a funky adventure.  Let me take this moment to officially state that I have a very well-defined comfort zone, and I have zero interest in expanding or altering it in any way.  I am also a spoiled snob when it comes to certain things, and I'm okay with that.  Unfortunately I had not yet embraced this truth about myself at the time of OPC Day, and my ill-timed enthusiasm to be perceived as whimsical and easy-going screwed me over big-time.

The first problem was that I agreed to go to Disney World in the first place.  As a little kid it's okay, but a group of adults wishing to force prepaid enjoyment upon themselves are probably better off in an atmosphere like Las Vegas or a Carnival cruise ship.  For anyone over the age of 14, Disney is just sad.  It's hot.  There are little children everywhere.  There are tourists EVERYWHERE.  You have to wait in line baking in the sun forever to do things that you don't even want to do, but since you paid about $95 to get in, you force yourself to act happy and excited every time something happens.  I've seen people taking pictures of squirrels at Disney.  SQUIRRELS. 

It began in the hotel, at check-in.  A family member had been so kind as to book the room using that website run by Captain Kirk, where the prices are so affordable that you might almost be inclined to overlook that they are offering you a single queen bed despite the fact that you have three full-grown adults in your party.  That night was the beginning of the end as far as my psyche was concerned.  It was so disgustingly sweaty between those two carbon-based butane heaters that at one point I think I actually had a minor stroke.  Being so easy-going as I was, I had volunteered to occupy the MIDDLE of the bed, which by 3am was starting to feel more like an especially lumpy funeral pyre.  I genuinely wanted to die. 

Before everyone else retired to their hotel rooms, the rest of the group congregated and made decisions about how best to destroy my life.  They really hit the jackpot.  "Let's get up super early so we can be at the park when it opens!!!!!!!! Won't that maximize our fun?!?!?!?!?" 

Here's a graph I made to show the relationship between enjoyment in life and the time I have to get up in the morning:

After consulting the graph, I could tell that even with solid sleep, my social skills at that hour of the morning would be somewhere on par with Peter Boyle in Young Frankenstein, or at BEST I could hope to achieve Rain Man status.  Since the rooming situation allowed me approximately 22 minutes of sleep that night, what we were looking at for my mental state was probably something like Carrie at the prom after they dumped all that pig's blood on her.  I didn't link that video because it is too horrible, and if there existed a Youtube video showing ME that morning, I wouldn't link that one either, for the same reason.  Some things you just can't un-see. 

My Loving Husband attempted to neutralize the situation by bringing me a cup of coffee from the lobby.  Here's a tip:  If you can look into your Styrofoam cup and clearly see the tiny little bubbles collecting through the colorless liquid, you are in for some real crap coffee.  Attempting to drink the vile urine-colored substance served only to exacerbate my Carrie-like rage.

We went down stairs to get into a friends' mini van, my most hated of transports, with 6 other people who looked like they were on a mixture of Zoloft and crystal methamphetamine.  After driving through Starbucks with great ceremony to highlight her great generosity of spirit, the family member at the wheel safely transported us all to the park, where several bajillion tourists had already arrived and were waiting, their fanny packs bursting at the seams with sanitary towlettes and disposable cameras. 

Since I do not enjoy the feelings of intense anxiety, uncontrollable nausea, or paralyzing terror, I did not go on any rides for most of the day.  And I was FINE WITH IT. I wasn't being grouchy, I just wasn't going on rides. Apparently not going on rides by choice is a capital offense in Disney World.  All day I had to listen to "What's wroooonnng???" (annoying) "Do you need more coffee?" (patronizing), and my favorite, "Do you need to use the bathroom?"

NO, nothing is wrong. NO, I do not need to go back to Starbucks. NO, I do not need to use the bathroom. I JUST DON'T LIKE RIDES.  By mid afternoon I was so worn out by trying to be cheerily uninvolved with the theme park experience that I gave in a went on a ride.  I shall rue that decision until the end of time.

The ride I caved and got into the line for was Mission Space.  It is designed to simulate what an astronaut might experience on a flight to Mars, with g forces (still not sure what those are) and hypersleep.  (NOTE: Since I began writing this paragraph, I am experiencing a significant tightness in the chest and the general feeling that I might die.  My genuine aversion to telling this part of the story astonishes me.  Must keep going!)

First the locked me in a capsule the size of a Porta-Potty with Loving Husband and Random Cousin.  The doors closed and locked with a sound that I would normally describe as "a space shuttle about to go out of the atmosphere", but in this case I guess that's exactly what they were going for.  I lay back and tried to breathe, hoping that I could just go to a happy place until it was all over. 

It's freaking me out too much to talk about the next 3 minutes in any detail, but I can honestly say that it involved blood-curdling screams, tearing at the walls, beating on every available surface, clawing at Loving Husband's arms, and massive amounts of tears and mucous.  Something snapped.  I was truly and legitimately traumatized. 

It took days for me to recover.  The rest of that afternoon was spent wandering around Epcot maintaining a shell-shocked expression and wondering which of the countries sold dignity as a souvenir.  Really, it was the perfect capper for a 24-hour period designed specifically to strip me of self-worth and reduce me to a quivering pile of shame and humiliation.

So the point is.....Disney World......don't go there.