I was pleased to discover I’ve been following a key piece of advice from Albert Einstein for quite some time. I just didn’t know it.
Combinatory play. Dabbling in an activity that is totally unrelated to the activity you “should” be doing.
I thought it was procrastination, but hey! Einstein calls it science, so we’ll go with that. He declared combinatory play is “the essential feature of productive thought.”
I’m massively lacking in productive thought. I’m lacking in productive anything, given the midlife chaos and rounds of life rolls. So… whatever works.
And it’s Einstein, so it can’t be wrong, right? With his E=mc2 and relativity and Nobel Prizes and such…
I’ve done a ton of blasted baking when I should have been writing. But we’ll call it combinatory play. This led to some productive thoughts. Like “I must stop this baking before my luck runs out and I burn down the kitchen.”
I auditioned for “Barbecuing Hamlet” when I should have been writing. But we’re gonna call it combinatory play. It did lead to some productive thoughts. Thoughts like “I’ve finally cracked” and “Hey, maybe whims can really work out.”
My most recent dabble was another one of those whims brought about by a Facebook ad. I could not still my inner five-year-old who demanded that we (the inner child, adult me, Little Miss Muse, and a real-life five-year-old along with her grandmother) find a way to experience “Unicorn World.
A little Background: The real-life child is the same one who’s trying to get me to live on the edge with Play-Doh-flavored neon ice cream and who I’ve tried to convince that unicorns just might be real. We can’t know for certain.
Full disclosure: This is the second time in less than four months that I’ve straight-up used this child to gain access to an event that my inner child wanted to attend but alas, my vessel is pushing fifty years old. I need a legit reason to attend Dinner with the Grinch. Since I’m the only one who can see Little Miss Muse (thank goodness), little CK is my legit reason.
That, and I like the kid.
Her grandmother is the Buddy who sends me on impossible errands to find yellow fabric, prays over my yak balls, and tries to protect me from imaginary kidnappers. Well, protect herself from imaginary kidnappers. I’d have probably gotten in the van had they let me bring the baby crabs along… it was a whole issue.
The event: Unicorn World. The venue: Indiana State Fair Grounds in Indianapolis. FYI: I’m not a paid reviewer. I’m processing this day for the sake of my sanity and not any kind of kickback. This is a traveling get-up. Like the Ringling Brothers Circus, but without the peddling poodles.
If you have a three- to perhaps ten-year-old unicorn-lover, there are some things you, as the responsible adult, should know if you choose to use Unicorn World as combinatory play.
(The jury is out on whether I can be a responsible adult in overstimulating situations where my inner child and Little Miss Muse have hijacked that one remaining brain cell, thus the need for a second adult to supervise. Just in case of imaginary kidnappers…)
I get to tell a very excited and wide-eyed CK as we pull from her drive that I need her help adopting a unicorn. (I pre-decided that adopting a unicorn would be considered combinatory play. Einstein would be proud.)
CK says she’ll gladly help. But do they have cotton candy? Because she’d like to have all things sugary.
Okay…
We have a rather long drive, and this child measures time differently than straight-up minutes or hours. Or miles. She measures time by how many times she could watch Frozen or Paw Patrol. Turns out she’s a speedy little viewer and can consume these shows multiple times in an hour-long trip. I feel sorry for her parents when she starts driving.
We paid extra for parking. The event was indoors, but we waited in a line outside in sub-zero windchills before our entry-window ticket kicked in. (Long line, super glad I’d gotten tickets ahead of time and not at the door…)
Once inside, we could stay as long as we liked. They recommend ninety minutes to three hours. Um. I bet this mileage will vary greatly on whether you have a five-year-old, a ten-year-old, an inner child, or a winged imp of a writing muse…
We finally reach the sign-in desk, shivering, in a swirl of little girls dressed in sparkles and toule—so much toule—and get our ride wristbands, goodie bag, unicorn headband, and face painting tokens.
Now, we’re ready… finally.
We stroll under the rainbow balloons into the forest where we’re greeted with animatronic, horse-sized unicorns for photo ops and fairy gardens and pink trees... Grown-up me is ready to savor the magic. Little Me wants to ride a unicorn (you can’t ride the ones in the forest) and Little Miss Muse wants to rewire their innards to see if she can get them to gallop (you can’t, there are guards).
We at least want some perfect photos. We get two before CK’s attention flees. As if she’d eaten five bags of cotton candy when she’d really only had two micro-bites of sausage.
We find the craft center, where we make a magic unicorn wand (it didn’t work, I tried five times). This lasts five minutes.
We adopt our unicorns. We name them and get certificates and everything. This much-anticipated event lasts two minutes.
The lines are noted. We don’t like lines with our cotton-candy-not-yet-eaten brains.
We get our faces painted—to match. A black unicorn in the middle of our foreheads with rainbows shooting out of each end. And glitter—some fine and shimmery on the rainbows and some thicker, chunky glitter on our cheeks. This takes two minutes.
There are ball pits and more lines.
There is story time and… that means sitting still.
There are more photo-op spots, one with a fairy, but she has a line. And one with a pair of mermaids. Again, line.
The longest lines are for the rides.
We talk CK into waiting. Given the ever-increasing body count, the lines will not get shorter as the day goes on.
We cue up for the unicorn bumper cars. Then unicorns-attached-to-hoverboard-esque controls. Then a slightly larger unicorn that the wrangler tells her to operate like a motorcycle. What?
While CK bounces in a unicorn castle bounce house that I’m too big for (I was too big for nearly all of these things), I get in line for the mermaids. Because… yes, Little Me wants her picture taken with the mermaids before the Bubble Juggling Lady comes with her flatbed cart to haul them to the breakroom because they can’t walk in their mermaid tails.
But Buddy pulls me from that “But I’m so close” line to wait in another line because she has squirrel brain… I pout. Like a child. Because I don’t want to watch Bubble Juggling. When the Bubble Juggling is done, that lady will take away the mermaids… Oh well. CK likes the bubbles.
Food at the venue is the standing little junk food café that’s always in that building. They offer a unicorn-themed latte with extra sprinkles, but not all-things-unicorn-flavored-and-shaped as CK and I had hoped. They do have cotton candy—thank goodness. Because cotton candy was discussed for three counties’ worth of roads (and through ten showings of Frozen, which she didn’t watch but swore she could).
Then comes the Unicorn Market. They only accept credit cards. So if you’ve taught your child how to earn their own dough for souvenirs and that child is soooo excited to hand over tangible allowance in exchange for glittery unicorn poop and their fistful (and it does take a fistful) of green bills is declined, be prepared to do a lesson on cashless societies.
We were unprepared to handle this lesson toward the end of our time at Unicorn World. Because we were buzzed and overstimulated and did not want to math. (Sorry, Einstein.)
Oh, and the prices are not displayed on ANYTHING at the Market. So… nice tactic.
Ooooh. And now the mermaids don’t have a line. I may have cut in front of a couple of children to get my photo, but that Bubbly Juggler was coming with that flatbed and I’ll never have another chance to get a photo like this because I can’t keep kidnapping CK…
I get my photo and settle down. But CK does not.
She’s buzzed. Waaaay buzzed. Like her little body knows if she stops, she’ll drop. And now she’s real-food hungry.
Beth is buzzed. Waaaay buzzed. Like my not-little body knows if I stop, I’ll drop and that’s bad because I’m the driver and I need real food and not that stuff from the venue.
Buddy is over at the castle getting the Bubble Juggler’s life story. Good thing it’s time for the mermaid’s break or they’d have been there for a while…
As we meander out of the building, CK insists on one more bounce house, one more craft, and oooh, one of the fairies is loose—so one more photo op. By the time we reach the car, adult me has kicked in.
Evidently, adult me rubs her forehead when distressed. I smudge some of my rainbow paint. A few pieces of chunky glitter fall into my lap.
We reach the restaurant, which CK picked based on the availability of ice cream, and wait for our “real food.” Buddy is wiped. I can see it on her face as she declares the plans she had for a grand evening are being reevaluated.
I nod and look down at the table, where there are chunks of glitter. My lap is covered. I feel my cheeks, and the stuff is flaking off now. Giving up after leaving behind the magic of Unicorn World. CK helps (not so gently) pick off the rest of my glitter so it doesn’t fall into my salad.
We are nearly to CK’s house, when we must make a mandatory pit stop. I wait in the car for Buddy and CK. I pull down the visor and laugh. My eyes are red from the cold, dry air. My hair’s a whirlwind. I’ve stress-rubbed my forehead unicorn into a grungy smudge. The chunky glitter is all gone and the finer glitter is fading. My fingers are black from the paint. I’m a mess. Grease paint everywhere.
CK and Buddy pop open the back door and as Buddy buckles her in, I ask CK, “You feel better now?”
Without missing a beat, she nods at her grandma and says, “We BOTH feel better now.”
TMI, CK.
But, yes. We all feel better now.
I don’t know if Einstein would’ve dubbed this day “an essential feature for productive thought,” but inner child, adult me, Little Miss Muse, and a real-life five-year-old along with her grandmother are better for having spent this day in each other’s company…
Even if I look like an overworked hoverboard unicorn mechanic.
