My family and I spent much of the past week in Disney World, mostly because my mother-in-law bankrolled the majority of our vacation.
Actually, a vacation is how my 7- and 5-year-old daughters viewed it. Having just turned 55, I approached it as a sort of middle-aged masochist camp, right down to the Primeval Whirl at Animal Kingdom — one of those rising, diving, whipping, dipping, spinning rollercoaster-esque contraptions that NASA probably borrows from time to time to boot equilibrium-challenged astronaut candidates from its space program.
I won’t go into all the gory details about my lone trip on the Whirl, other than to say I didn’t know my stomach could retain portions of so many past meals until they revisited my throat about two spins into the ride.
Ah, the things you do for love. Especially when your wife is smart enough to say, “Honey, why don’t you take this one?”
But that’s not why I’m reflecting on my five days in Mouse Town as I come to grips with why the San Antonio Spurs and Boston Celtics will be joining me on the sofas of their choosing to watch the NBA Finals.