Ah. The Magic of Disney

I mean, I love its retro feel and tacky nostalgia and I most definitely love Space Mountain. What I don’t love are all of the grown-ups milling around in matching t-shirts, not to mention the ones who come dressed head-to-toe in expensive, “adult” Disney regalia, like a polo shirt with a Mickey logo on the pocket, covered by a cardigan with 50 Disney characters hand-stitched on the back and topped off with a Disney baseball cap featuring the words “Jo Beth” embroidered beneath its Mickey Mouse logo. Not cool, people. Not cool.

And then there are the Superfans. Standing ahead of us in the Toy Story ride line on our visit to Disneyland last week was a small group of adults who seemed a little too excited.

“To infinity and beyond!” the grey-bearded man in the group shouted, holding up his arm in a pose eerily reminiscent of Hitler.

“Wait a minute… I just lit a rocket!” his middle-aged woman friend responded eagerly. “Rockets explode!”

“This is an intergalactic emergency,” shouted their motorized scooter-bound female friend. “I need to commandeer your vessel to Sector 12!” She whirled in a circle as her friends smiled indulgently.

They were…. no. Surely not. Were they? Was it possible they were reciting lines from the movie?

It was. I frowned and wondered what exactly they’d been smoking.

Oh, I wasn’t always such a Scrooge McDuck. I still remember visiting Walt Disney World for the first time at seven and practically fainting with joy when I saw Cinderella’s castle. I went back probably five more times during my childhood years and loved every minute of those trips. But then, something happened.

I grew up.

When I returned to Disneyland with two stepdaughters in tow, I noticed that the rides were much shabbier than I had remembered. The lines seemed longer, the people dirtier, the sun, more merciless on my back. The magic of Disney, for me anyway, turned out to be nothing more than an overpriced illusion. It was fun, but honestly, I would have enjoyed myself more spending the $65 my ticket cost at the local shopping mall. Still, with four kids and in-laws living in LA, Disneyland’s allure is almost impossible to escape.

That’s how we found ourselves there last week with my stepdaughters and, for the first time, my three-year-old. At first, she seemed to think that her sole reason for being there was to get on as many rides as possible. She’d solemnly stand in line, board each ride with a determined expression, and quietly wait for it to end before leaping off at a dead run and shouting, “Now let’s go do another one!” over her shoulder at us. All in all, she didn’t seem that impressed by the Disney experience. I smugly reasoned that she was so smart, she could see through its marketing “magic” already.

By afternoon that day, our family had split up- My husband and the older girls left for the Indiana Jones ride and Punky and I headed to the park’s princess section. Like nearly every other girl in America, Punky loves the Disney princesses with a passion and I’d heard we could stand in line and meet at least four of them at once. It seemed like a great way to fulfill my princess duties.

We found the line and stood in it for over an hour, surrounded by little girls whose parents had paid $175 to get them a princess makeover, complete with a gown, gloves, wand, a flowing synthetic wig and makeup. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the black-haired, olive-skinned girl in front of us, miserable in her blonde wig and itchy dress as her scowling mother reapplied bright red lipstick to her lips. I looked down at Punky in her simple sundress and wondered if she felt left out, surrounded by the tulle and sparkle of the other girls. I wondered if she’d even consent to pose with the princesses, who were, after all, just strangers in elaborate costume. I imagined her cowering behind me as a heavily made-up young woman tried to coax her out from behind my legs. I shouldn’t have worried.

The moment we were allowed inside the room containing the princesses, Punky spotted Belle. She gasped with delight as Belle kneeled and opened her arms to her. Without even looking at me for reassurance, Punky ran happily to her and Belle lifted her off the ground in a long hug.

Once they’d talked for a minute and Belle had signed Punky’s princess autograph book (which my older girls had wisely insisted we purchase for her), I asked for a picture. Punky turned and looked at me as if drugged with pure pleasure.

And for the first time since I was a child, I felt it: the magic of Disney. This was no LA actress trying to make ends meet with a cheesy theme park job; this was Belle, live and in person. I grinned like an idiot as I thanked her profusely and wondered how I could get my hands on the black silk jacket I’d seen an old woman wearing earlier that day, the one emblazoned with Beauty and the Beast’s magic rose on the back.

Fortunately, the Disney spell that came over me was blasted to bits 20 minutes later by a life-sized chipmunk with a bad case of body odor. I sighed with relief when we finally reached our rented minivan late that afternoon and loaded everyone inside. I turned and looked at Punky, knocked out in her carseat, still clutching her autograph book. And suddenly, I missed that giddy feeling of synthetic Disney joy that, once upon a time, invaded my very soul after a day like this one. I missed it with all my heart.