Theme Park Vacation
Face it, something strange happens when you take your family on
vacation to a theme park. Oh, I’m not talking about Big Foot
sightings or alien abductions or anything like that.
Theme Park Vacation
Face it, something strange happens when you take your family on vacation to a theme park. Oh, I’m not talking about Big Foot sightings or alien abductions or anything like that. I’m talking about the strange thing that happens to otherwise reasonable people who are suddenly willing to pay exorbitant prices to experience the very same conditions they strive to avoid the rest of the year. It’s bizarre, I tell you.
I mean, when else would you ever purposely wait at the end of a line that wraps all the away around the outside of a grocery store and then ends somewhere past the shopping cart corral in the parking lot, so you can eventually hand someone at the register an obscene amount of money? If you’re like most people, your answer is probably the uncensored version of, “Not on your life, Lady!” And I don’t blame you. During any other time in my life, if there are more than three people waiting in front of me, my left eye begins to twitch and what little time I have left on this planet begins to flash forward before my eyes.
But for some reason lines are OK as long as I’m on “vacation.”
And that’s not all. Visiting a theme park makes me do other bizarre things. Like, actually seeking out something that will fling me from side to side until I’m nauseous then spray me with water. Call me crazy, but I usually go to great lengths to avoid this happening to me. In fact, I try my utmost to always remain dry and upright.
So why then do I travel hundreds of miles, spend one-sixth of my yearly income, and stand in line for hours to have this done to me when I could go into the backyard with my children, turn on the hose, and feel the same sensations for FREE?
Because, you guessed it, I’m on VACATION.
On top of that, all year long I never, ever walk anywhere. Every time I try to walk down the street to our neighborhood park, I last two or maybe three blocks, before I break out in a sweat, my knees begin to wobble, and I end up turning back to get into my car and drive somewhere for a nice cup of cappuccino.
But, mind you, at a theme park something mysterious happens, and I metamorphous into a Decathlon runner, sprinting across acres and acres worth of parking lots to get to the entrance gate with a 10-pound backpack strapped to me just so I can beat the crowd of people waiting for the tram. And I don’t even need to remind you about the countless laps from where ever we are, to the “good” rides somewhere across the park.
And it doesn’t stop there. I’ve watched my husband, a frugal man who clips coupons and stocks up on cans of tuna fish voluntarily pay a bazillion dollars for a stick of cotton candy and a corn dog.
And I’ve watched my friend Julie, a person so afraid of heights she refuses to take elevators in buildings with more than two floors, actively seek out a ride that will shoot her body 50 feet into the air and then plummet two-thirds of it to the ground, leaving most of her lungs and spinal column dangling in midair.
No one knows why this happens. I mean, if it is thrills you seek, the car ride there should fulfill you enough. You would think that no ride, however horrendous, could top being trapped for hours in an enclosed space with two bored, tiny people in the backseat who are kicking your seat, flinging crayon shards into your hair and having sporadic fits of screaming.
The one sure thing about visiting theme parks is that for some unexplainable reason, next year you’ll do it all again. The lines, the crowds, the food. Everything.
Oh, it’s not because you’re stupid or a fool. Even though you might feel that way. It’s because, deep down, you know being hurled through the air in a plastic bucket the shape of a rocket really IS fun. Plus, it builds precious family memories for your children.
And, sometimes, that’s the price you have to pay.
