Every time I go to Disneyland, it's the same setup. No kids with me. No nieces, no nephews, no "taking someone else's kid for the day" excuse. Just me, a pair of sneakers, and a churro the size of my forearm.
Last time, a woman in the Matterhorn line looked at me — alone, adult, no child in tow — and I could see it. The calculation. The momentary concern. The quiet judgment you can feel but can't prove.
I smiled at her. She did not smile back.
I rode the Matterhorn anyway. Front car. Hands up.
I've Been Doing This Since Before It Was Acceptable.
There was a time — maybe ten years ago — when being an adult at a theme park without children was treated like a soft crime. Not illegal, but suspicious. Like bringing a book to a bar. Technically fine, but people were going to talk.
That era is over. Disney adults exist now. They have podcasts and Instagram accounts and annual pass tiers and strong opinions about when they changed the yeti on Expedition Everest. There's an entire culture, and it's massive, and it's loud, and I want to be clear about something: I am not one of them.
I don't collect pins. I don't have Disney tattoos. I don't own mouse ears that cost more than my first cell phone. I don't care about Dapper Day. I've never gotten emotional about a fireworks show.
I just like rollercoasters. A lot.
The Physics of Not Thinking.
Here's what people don't understand about amusement park rides — the good ones, the real ones, the ones that make your stomach drop and your brain go completely silent: it's the only place where I don't think about anything.
I think constantly. About work. About the businesses. About school. About what I should've said in a meeting. About whether the website looks right on mobile. About whether I'm doing enough, doing too much, doing the wrong things entirely. My brain does not have an off switch. It has a volume knob that only goes up.
Except at the top of a drop tower. At the top of a drop tower, I think about nothing. My brain — for two and a half seconds of freefall — shuts the hell up. That's worth the price of admission. Every time.
I've tried meditation. I've tried the breathing exercises from the apps that everyone says changed their life. None of it works the way a 200-foot drop at 75 miles per hour works. Not even close.
My brain does not have an off switch. Except at the top of a drop tower. For two and a half seconds — nothing.
The Ranking Nobody Asked For.
I have a ranking of every major coaster I've ridden in the last five years. I keep it in my head but I'll put some of it here because this is my blog and no one can stop me.
X2 at Magic Mountain is the best rollercoaster in Southern California and I'll argue with anyone about it. The seats rotate. The track is insane. It's the closest thing to feeling like you've lost control of your own body while being, technically, completely safe. Every time I get off it, I'm slightly angry that it's over.
Space Mountain at Disneyland is the best ride in any Disney park. Not because it's the fastest or the most intense — it's not. Because it's a rollercoaster in the dark. You can't see what's coming. You can't brace for the turns. It removes the one thing your brain desperately wants: information. That's the genius of it.
The Incredicoaster at California Adventure is fine. It's a good ride. But they put a Pixar overlay on what was already a great coaster — California Screamin' — and somehow made it slightly worse. I'll never forgive them for it.
times I've ridden X2 at Magic Mountain. I stopped counting after that. It felt excessive. It was excessive.
People Think This Is About Nostalgia. It's Not.
Everyone assumes I love theme parks because of childhood memories. The family trip. The magic of being five years old and walking down Main Street for the first time. Some formative experience involving a Mickey Mouse ice cream bar.
No. I barely went to theme parks as a kid. We didn't have the money for that. My family didn't do Disneyland every summer. There was no annual tradition, no matching t-shirts, no photo in front of the castle.
I discovered this as an adult. The first time I went to Disneyland as a grown man with his own money, I was in my thirties and went because a friend had extra tickets. I rode Space Mountain, got off, got back in line, rode it again, and something in me clicked that hadn't clicked before.
This isn't nostalgia. This is something I found on my own, as an adult, that makes my life measurably better. And I refuse to be embarrassed about it because society decided that adults are supposed to be bored.
I refuse to be embarrassed about it because society decided that adults are supposed to be bored.
The Argument for Being Ridiculous.
I run a telecom company. I'm finishing a degree. I'm starting a podcast. I have meetings and deadlines and responsibilities and all the serious-adult things that fill up the calendar and drain the battery.
And on Saturday mornings — some of them, not every one — I drive to Anaheim and I wait in line and I ride rollercoasters until my legs hurt and my voice is hoarse from screaming on rides designed for people half my age.
I'm not going to apologize for that. Not to the woman in the Matterhorn line. Not to anyone who thinks it's immature or weird or "a lot." Being "a lot" is the one consistent thing about me at this point — I've got blog posts to prove it.
Here's what I've figured out, and it took me an embarrassingly long time: the things that make you feel alive don't have to make sense to other people. They don't have to be productive. They don't have to look good on a resume or fit into a personal brand or have a purpose beyond the fact that you love them.
A grown man at Disneyland, alone, eating a churro the size of his forearm, grinning like an idiot after a ride he's been on forty-seven times — that's not a punchline. That's a person who figured out what makes him happy and stopped asking for permission to enjoy it.
The woman in the Matterhorn line can think whatever she wants. I'm getting back on.