We purchased Disney World Water park passes for the family earlier this year. If you’re a Florida resident, it’s a great value, and you can use the passes all year long.
Because swimming season, in Florida, lasts from about March through November.
And I always get a kick out of the northern states residents that brave the chilly temperatures to swim in December. When the temperature drops to 60. While all the Floridians are bundled up in their parkas.
Throughout the rest of this month, the water parks are open until around 8 pm. So, because he is a guy that flies by the seat of his sweatpants, Fiddledaddy announced to his offspring to locate their swimwear, the Fiddle family was heading to Blizzard Beach.
Which Jensen has affectionately dubbed Lizard Beach.
He looked at me sitting forlornly in my office chair, fanning myself with a Hobby Lobby circular, warding off the latest hot flash. “Do you want to go?”
That required some mental contemplation.
First, I would have to find a sausage casing swim suit that I could stuff myself into. In the interest of transparency, I will tell you that since my whole knee fiasco, I have gained 10 unwanted pounds. Added to the other 10 that I still need to lose from baby #3.
Who is now 5 years old.
Lack of exercise, columns of Ritz Crackers, and nightly shot glasses of ChocoVine have taken their toll on my petite frame.
So, let’s say that I actually find a suit with enough lycra to cover me. There’s the whole issue of walking into the water park. Which I would have to negotiate on my crutches, because their are no all-terrain wheelchairs available to traverse the sandy paths of Blizzard Beach. And then I would have to consider ALL THE STINKING STAIRS. There is a ski lift, but I cannot get in or out of one without landing on my face. Even with two GOOD legs.
Typically, what we would do is head into the park and set up camp in a group of beach chairs. If we could find some available. In the shade. This is where I would camp while my family frolicked on the water rides. While sipping some fru-fru frozen concoction through a tiny straw, taking care not to poke myself in the eye with the tiny umbrella.
So far, this is not a bad plan.
But then I begin to envision the worse case scenario. As I’m wont to do.
We find one lone beach chair, in direct sunlight. Because it’s 116 degrees outside, and what with the hot flashes and all, I have five frozen cocktails too many.
Then an infamous Florida afternoon thunderstorm rolls in.
And there I am. Standing on my crutches. A sweaty teetering lightening rod. Certain to make the late afternoon news.
“Um, honey, don’t worry about me. I think you should just take the children and leave me here in the air conditioning to manage the paperwork.”