A month ago, I embarked on a completely out-of-character-for-me trip with a certifiable Disney Nut. My friend has won medals in Mouse and Castle enthusiasm, not to mention a trophy in The Ability to Navigate Throngs to Secure Adrenaline Rushes.
Her bubbling Kingdom enthusiasm converged perfectly with my rather epic meltdown of wherewithal…
But the crowds.
But the chaos.
But I’ve been twice with kids, and it was… ooof. Not my thing.
“But you can find joy on a bus at Disney,” came the rebuttal from The Nut.
Fine. Book it.
Book the flight. Book the room. Book the park.
And purchase a lightweight raincoat that rolls into a nice, neat little pouch and fits into a bag for the day without putting undue weight on the recovering rotator cuff.
I shall spare you stories that fall into the You Had to Be There category. Suffice it to say, joy was found on more than one bus. However, this came after The Nut passive-aggressively demonstrated that one must NOT sit in the back like an introvert. To win the trophy, one must sit in the middle, directly in front of the exit, so that when the doors slide open, you can bolt to the starting line with all the other Nuts. While the bus is in motion, one must do math on groups, strollers, children, and the time of day.
THEN the joy.
By day three, I’d started to get the hang of things at the rate of three parks and 10 to 12 miles per day. My wonky, glitching system had been manageable up until this particular evening at Hollywood Studios. The sounds and smells and the shrill woman in the line behind me, declaring incessantly to a terrified five-year-old (who barely passed the height requirement) that fear was for the weak, threatened to slam my window of tolerance all the way shut.
We managed to make it through the line, rode the ride, and exited through the gift shop into the drizzly night. I pulled out my brand-new raincoat (I knew it was a raincoat because the sewn-in care tag said “raincoat”), hydrated, and tried to wrangle my nervous system into reasonable compliance.
The Nut was quite patient and offered options, including returning to the resort. Not wanting to let the glitch get the win, I opted to stay for the end-of-night spectacle of Movie Magic.
We made our way to the front of the park where we spied the rare empty bench. The Nut went to ask someone about the times and best spots to watch the show. “If you’ve got a bench, hold on to it, even if the view isn’t straight on.”
The Nut and I took the lady seriously. We secured that bench with every fiber of our beings. We removed our backpacks and set them on our laps. We popped the hoods up on our hoodies and draped our raincoats over the packs and over us.
And there we sat with fifteen minutes to showtime.
No one came near us.
What a good job we’ve done claiming this bench. No one even glanced in our direction. Gave us a wide, clear berth heretofore never before seen in a crowd at Hollywood Studios.
Then we realized… we look like bag ladies.
Drizzled-on sweatshirt hoods wilting over our heads. Lumps in our laps with what, in the dark, must look like garbage bags draped over the top. I discovered about this time that my “raincoat” was a complete sham. I’m quite soaked.
I tried to get a selfie of the ridiculousness. My hand shook from post-glitchiness, cold, and laughing, and the pics came out fuzzy. We couldn’t get anyone’s attention to take one for us—who wants to be associated with us?
This fiasco became a highlight of the trip. One thing led to another to another, and Bam! Bag Ladies of Hollywood Studios title secured.
Fast-forward to Indiana, one week and one giant snowstorm later, and a teenie baby girl weighing a little over five pounds hands me a completely different title.
BiBi.
I hope Tiny Grand Girl grows up knowing she’s so very much loved, pointed toward endless possibilities for exploration and imagination.
I hope she knows she can call BiBi if things get glitchy and the wherewithal starts to fade. And we’ll book it. Flight. Room. Park.
It’ll be okay.
Joy will be found.
Because BiBi knows a Nut, bus etiquette, and a good bench.
