I Had a Major Meltdown in the Pluto Parking Lot at Disneyland

It wasn't my happiest moment

Photo by Craig Adderley: https://www.pexels.com

"Motherfreakin crap buckets, frick yellow bugs, sugar shack asshats," I yelled.

Only that's not what I said.

Instead of this G-rated version, I used every obscene, nasty, and objectionable swear word in my vocabulary and made up some new ones.

It was as if all the pirates from The Pirates of the Caribbean had come to life, freed themselves from endlessly chasing wenches and drinking large tankards of air, and were creating havoc in their newly animated bodies.

Suddenly, it was swear like a pirate night in the Disneyland parking lot.

When did this exploration of cursing take place? Why it was Gay Night at Disneyland, or that's what we called it.

Every year, APLA (AIDS Project Los Angeles) had a fundraiser at Disneyland.

The park was closed to anyone who hadn't purchased their ticket through APLA because, on Gay Night, Disneyland was gloriously uncrowded. It was a great night for LGBTQIA+ people and their allies to support a wonderful cause.

There were hardly any lines, and you could ride your favorite ride like the Haunted Mansion ten times in a row if you wanted.

I went with some friends and had a blast.

You really haven't had the full Disneyland experience until you've gone on Peter Pan with a bunch of witty and sarcastic gay men.

I wore my favorite sweater with a deep V in the back, which I thought was strange. I always wore it backward, so I had a low-cut front instead of a weird V for Victory on my back.

Celine Dion can carry that look off, but I can't.

While the sweater's construction may have been funky, it was made of gorgeous Cerulean blue angora—a color not found in nature. It was long enough to hug my hips and stop at the knees. I could dress it up with earrings or pair it with jeans to go casual.

I loved that sweater so much—it made me feel wealthy and luxurious. Since I have mood eyes (sometimes green and other times blue), it made my eyes appear extra blue.

After a super fun night of eating fried foods, sneaking drinks from the multiple flasks my friends had secretly brought in, seeing every attraction, and riding all the rides, we stumbled out to the Pluto section of the parking lot.

Not everybody was wasted, our driver was sober, which was good because maneuvering the Disneyland parking lot required one to be sharp, even if they were walking.

It was a dark night, even with a full moon and the parking lot lights. That’s my excuse for what was about to happen; it was practically pitch black, not I was too drunk and exhausted to notice the oil slick before it was too late.

Suddenly, the asphalt became a slip and slide as I lost my footing and slid into the oil slick so that my back and side were covered in grease.

I was embarrassed.

I was humiliated.

I was furious that my sweater was ruined because somebody's car had an oil leak, and they hadn't fixed it before coming to the Magical Kingdom.

Swearing commences, in three, two, one.

If you're thinking that, since it was 1:00 a.m. and a fundraiser for an LGBTQ+ organization, maybe there weren't any children to witness my meltdown.

Let me assure you, there were.

Hands immediately covered ears, and parents turned their children away from the grown-up lady in the blue sweater, who was having a tantrum. The only thing that could have made it worse was if I'd been in a Cinderella costume.

I can’t count the number of times, I've slipped and fallen on my ass. Everywhere from Paris's cobblestone streets to Hollywood's dirty sidewalks, but this fall was the worst. Not only was my beautiful sweater ruined, but both my ego and my butt were bruised. And there were so many witnesses to my disgraceful tumble.

My cursing turned into crying as I lay there wishing the earth would open up and swallow me whole.

"Save yourselves, " I told my friends. "Go on without me."

See, I’m selfless like that.

My friends could not control their laughter. I assume I was quite the sight, covered in black goo from tip to toe, but they couldn’t leave me there. Once they got their laughter somewhat contained, they picked me up and tried to wipe some of the grease off—not to save my sweater but my friend's car.

Some people have no empathy.

After placing some towels on the seat, they loaded me into the car, and we left the scene of my major adult tantrum.

Disneyland was no longer my happiest place on earth.

I had the sweater dry-cleaned, but it was never the same. It carried the faint stink of motor oil forever. Still, I kept my once beautiful sweater until many generations of moths had made it their meal of the day.

It was so comfy and perfect. I’ll never love a sweater as much as I loved that one.

Motherf*ckers.

Originally published on Medium.

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