Alice On A Mushroom

I had the moment at Disney. The one where all stress flees and leaves only happiness. I didn’t know that was still possible. I watch the kids embark on mini-adventures via whatever’s available—dolls, spoons, pencils—and am sure it’s an unacheivable high. Even at my calmest I’m suppressing a tooth grind. Bills, books, laundry, failure…I lose my mind at least five times a day. I’ve come to accept that as adulthood.

But is it? Might unadulterated happiness be attainable in your thirties? And must the catalyst be a $15K firework show? Close proximity to Hogsmeade and a Dippin’ Dots concession stand?

It may be possible, friends. I’ll tell you what: it was magical. It was the simplest my thoughts have been since I wondered how NKOTB would ever make it if Donnie left the band.

It’s my new go-to. When I feel that horror coming on—buyer remorse on the pound of dehydrated green beans, anxiety over whether I really deserve 2-ply, daymares of alien war—I inhale the moment at Disney. I wish I’d had it captured on film.