Hailing from Jacksonville, Florida was his first strike. Lucky for him, I’d recently downloaded a meditation app called Shhhh which told me to accept every person’s journey or else I was the problem. That acceptance has landed me in a marriage with a man who feels steamy when the chorus of “Be Our Guest” hits. There could be worse things my therapist reminds me. He could be doing hard drugs, consuming copious amounts of alcohol or be following underwear models on the Internet and claiming he, “likes every single photo on his feed, so sue me!” People act like I should be grateful that he’s doing the bare minimum of not gaslighting me into oblivion like my friend Rachel’s husband is doing to her. Even with the cancer diagnosis from two doctors, he still thinks it’s in her head* which is bananas. I think she should hit him with her car, or a bus.
But my Disney loving husband having an annual pass? Consider me 10/10 offended.
I have spent seven of his birthdays at Disney and seven of my own. He posts these trips on Facebook because his Aunt Viv loves to “see our adventures.” Next weekend we’re going to Magic Kingdom for the menu change at Cinderella’s castle. The drive won’t be a problem anymore since we’ve moved to the greater Orlando area. Though, things are getting dicey because I refuse to wear the matching ears—it’s causing a rift. Last night, he took his Lilo & Stitch body wash to the guest bathroom.
Walt Disney was a weirdo himself, so it makes sense that his followers are a different shade of human. Don’t bother Googling the man, it’s lying to you. Maybe go to page 11 of Google, better yet find a whole new search engine. Walt was a bit of a shit soup. The usual: racist, sexist, homophobic. Magic Kingdom feels like a call back to a time when a woman’s face was in a constant state of flush from opening and closing the oven door. I walk into the park and suddenly my career goals fly out of my head and I’m goo-goo-ga-ga for my man. They must pump something into the monorail air.
But I’ll give it to him; Space Mountain is good. More than good, it makes me feel like an astronaut.
But you better bring a water bottle because they don’t have a single water fountain. Money vultures. Well, if you’ll be there anyway, don’t miss the Main Street parade—watch out for the flying Peter Pan (hint: a woman plays this part). If you want to treat yourself head to Cinderella’s Royal Table and order The Clock Strikes Twelve. It’s the best mousse that’s ever gone in your mouth.
At 11:50pm look to the sky.
Here come the fireworks.
*Men are 7x more likely to leave their wives when a major diagnosis is given.