In the endless litany of things that remind you that you’re getting older — your hairline, Top 40 radio, your body’s outright rejection of the Big Mac — I’ve decided that high on the list should be a visit to one of America’s fine theme parks. Also carnivals, but there the feeling is trumped by the sensation that at any moment you might be jumped by a deranged carny.
But theme parks, they’re supposed to be joyful and fun — even the ones my family visits, which tend to look like that they were built entirely out of papier maché in the 1950s. It seems to me this feeling shouldn’t wear off just because you’re old enough to suspect the guy piloting the Buccaneer Pirate Ship is not an actual pirate.
I was especially looking forward to visiting Santa’s Village and Storyland last week, given that my kids are outgrowing the need to tromp repeatedly through the Three Bears’ House, where they try out beds that have already been laid upon by the entire under-5 population of northern New England. Instead they’re getting into the various roller coasters and tilt-a-whirls, which I figured would be more fun for me — at least until I actually went on one, and was surprised at the end of the ride to find that my stomach was sharing a car with an entirely different family.
For the rest of this week's AT LARGE by Peter Chianca, click here.