When the ride attendant buckled us into our swings, my palms began to sweat and I feebly smiled at my wife who watched “safely” from afar. She laughed and sinisterly smiled. She seemed to be enjoying this too much. When the ride began, I deathly pallor washed across my face. We started to circle. I tried to feign enthusiasm for the ride, and I talked to my daughter to make her feel at ease. She screamed, “This is so much fun.”
The ride began to circle more quickly. my daughter giggled with delight, which fortunately muffled my sobs. As we circled she started talking about the other rides she wanted to experience. A queasiness began to bubble in my tummy. I closed my eyes trying to soothe myself. I think, I even mumbled the Lord’s Prayer and promised to be a better human being if I survived. I then envisioned vacationers from all over America who would go home and tell the story of the guy who vomited on The Backyardigan’s Swing-Along at the Mall of America. Ten years from now, I would be at a party and someone would tell this story, bringing this urban legend full circle. Eventually, the madness ended and both my feet were on the ground. I wobbled with the first few steps I took as my daughter seemed to skip and bounce over to my wife.This story has a happy ending because I thoroughly enjoyed seeing my daughter enjoy herself on all of the rides.
I’m grateful that most rides had a height limit. If my daughter would have been over 42 inches tall, I may have faced an untimely death. Thank goodness for rules and regulations.