I walk in front of the stroller and Mr. A steers. Inch by slow inch we head in the direction of the gates. Every person on the bridge is going a different direction. I feel the panic set in. I am a tad, smidgen, small amount, claustrophobic. I'm trying to take deep breathes and not panic. Just when I get close to screaming in an inhuman demon voice, “Sweet Mother of Fudge Get Out Of My Way!”
I see a glimpse of salvation. There's a line of smiling cast members and each are holding what looks like those fancy airplane wands.
They're in the middle of Main Street saying, “Stay to the right of the lights”
They were controlling the flow. Adding order. I piped down my crazy demon voice. I inched forward, the stroller inched forward, Mr. A inched forward. We stuck close to the cast members. Too close. Scraping up against them close. Knowing what deodorant brand was their favorite. Or if they were wearing any at all.
But my claustrophobic brain was saying, “Lights good, follow the lights.” It was soothing, repetitive and gave me an idea. I added a little swirl to my step. If I can get The Jiggler in a mesmerizing pattern , I'm hoping it will put GC to sleep.
Or maybe convince the four gazillion people behind us to turn around and do something else besides leave.
“Go to Pirates of The Caribbean,” said the Jiggler.
“Go find an empty popcorn cart and ruin your vacation,” The Jiggler taunted.
We're close to Casey’s. The going is slow. I pass the place where Mr. A and I had ice cream last trip at a table outside. We inch on. I remember walking Frankenstein-Style down Main Street with my two best friends from High school.
Flashback* * *
My next door neighbors were also my best friends growing up. We had a ball. They were always with me, even on the tippy dock at the lake dodging the dog turds. At 16 my parents loaded me and my girlfriends in the RV and took us to Florida. We were going to spend three days in Disney. But before, we wanted to work on our tans. Now, my two friends are Italian and have a deep, beautiful skin color year round. And they would get a tan on the beach. We were from New York and this was before spray tans. In order to prove you went away to a tropical place, you had to come back with a tan. Now, I am Polish and Irish. I've never had a tan in my life. I have the very desirable skin tone of bloated corpse, Pasty white with blue undertones. Don’t hate.
We marched out to the beach, to the local sun tan lotion cart and got what we needed most. We reached right past the Sunscreen, sun block, and hats. We bought a bottle of Panama Jack. Not sure what that is? I'll help you out. It is basically cooking oil. That smells really nice. We spread out our towels. We all oil each other up. On them… sexy. On me, it enhanced the “raw chicken about to be cooked” look I was shooting for. And we spent the day at the beach by my Aunt’s house. It was cloudy so we reapplied Mr. Jack often. We frolicked in the waves. They looked like Italian swim suit models. Me? I was rocking the rare albino pink dolphin look.
By the time we came back to the RV I was shaking. Then, I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t talk. I was pinking up as they watched. They drove me to the E.R. It took three hospital personnel to hold me down to get in the IV of saline. None of them were surprised at my stupidity. Apparently, a lot of my Irish friends make a raw deal with Mr. Jack. My girls and I were supposed to go to Disney the next day.
When I could finally stop chattering, I asked the Doctor, “Can I go to Disney?” He rolled his eyes at me. My beady eyes got all determined in my hot pink head “I AM GOING!”
When I was released from the hospital, my Italian friends were also sunburned. On them, of course, it was charming. A sweet blush. Making them even cuter. I was now a screaming blister color, and I've very light colored eyes. I looked and moved just like one of the M. Night Shyamalan characters. Crap, now I'm scaring myself.
But, dammit, we got up the next day and went to Disney. We helped each other get dressed, with no one able to bend their arms and legs. As graceful as stiff Barbie Dolls. We went on all the rides. We winced and screamed in pain on most of them.
* * *
Remembering my angry lobster waddle always brings a smile, we keep inching forward. We're getting closer to the gates and then the unimaginable! A miracle! The Jiggler hypnotizing had worked. I heard angels singing as the crowd cleared. They'd stopped heading for the gates. Down by the Candy Shop and the gate there was a reasonable amount of people doing reasonable things.
And I in my head I heard a “go fly” on my fudge… from God… or Walt, either way I was going in. The line inside might be long, but there was hope.
Up next, we end this trip report with Mr. A trying to find my dignity.