The Misery of Fun
I was holed up, purposefully, in my basement—the place where I hermit when I’m not obligated by work or another adult responsibility to leave and confront the outside world—when my wife came down the stairs, her heels clacking against the hardwood. She was holding her phone, staring at the screen. “So,” she said.
I knew that “so” and something was coming that I wasn’t going to enjoy hearing. “What is it?”
“So my dad texted me, and they’re planning a trip for next April and inviting us and the kids,” she said.
“Tell me it’s not Disney World.”
“Disney World isn’t that bad,” she said with a lilt in her voice. “It’ll be fun.”
My head dropped into my hands. My wife was going to use the kids, who are now teenagers, to try to convince me into willfully entering the lost circle of Dante’s Hell.
And all of this would be done in the name of “prescribed fun.”
At the risk of sounding like a curmudgeon—-which I probably am—-the idea of Disney World…hell, state of Florida alone, is enough to induce an anxiety attack. I’d rather be strung up by my toes and beaten with a broomstick than to stand in a 45 minute line next to a family of sunburned and overstuffed Midwesterners. There will be thousands of people with the same expectation: to have “fun” on the boat trip through It’s a Small World. Hop on, everybody, it will be a blast, everything you’ve waited to experience, so much fucking fun that you’ll pop like a fun-sucking tick.
“I’m not going,” I told my wife. “I don’t have enough Ativan to make it through a week there.” Continue reading