Mickey Mouse Is My Mentor
Wednesday, January 13. 2010
I've been down on the Disney Experience recently. There's been a long, slow decline of the "wonder" factor for a couple of decades, and it's not just because I've been getting older. Still, when one lives in Central Florida, it's difficult to divorce oneself completely from the biggest behemoth in the Tourist Zone.
Thus, when friends visited from out of town recently, we duly found ourselves wandering through the World. As we sat and watched the opening of Fantasmic one chilly evening, as I watched the star of the show magically appear on stage and shoot sparkly fireworks from his sleeves to thunderous applause, I realized the guy has a pretty good thing going, and I couldn't help but envy him.
I want to be Mickey Mouse.
He's at the top of a huge, multinational corporation, but his only job is to make people smile. He's the responsible one (compared to Donald and Goofy), but he's still mischievous and not afraid to explore the edges of his world (a la Sorceror's Apprentice). He knows what he's doing, except when he's not supposed to. He's able to make magic, and make people's lives magical. He's universally loved.
Hmmm, wonder if the Sorceror's Apprentice Apprentice position is open?
I've been down on the Disney Experience recently. There's been a long, slow decline of the "wonder" factor for a couple of decades, and it's not just because I've been getting older. Still, when one lives in Central Florida, it's difficult to divorce oneself completely from the biggest behemoth in the Tourist Zone.
Thus, when friends visited from out of town recently, we duly found ourselves wandering through the World. As we sat and watched the opening of Fantasmic one chilly evening, as I watched the star of the show magically appear on stage and shoot sparkly fireworks from his sleeves to thunderous applause, I realized the guy has a pretty good thing going, and I couldn't help but envy him.
I want to be Mickey Mouse.
He's at the top of a huge, multinational corporation, but his only job is to make people smile. He's the responsible one (compared to Donald and Goofy), but he's still mischievous and not afraid to explore the edges of his world (a la Sorceror's Apprentice). He knows what he's doing, except when he's not supposed to. He's able to make magic, and make people's lives magical. He's universally loved.
Hmmm, wonder if the Sorceror's Apprentice Apprentice position is open?
Thus, when friends visited from out of town recently, we duly found ourselves wandering through the World. As we sat and watched the opening of Fantasmic one chilly evening, as I watched the star of the show magically appear on stage and shoot sparkly fireworks from his sleeves to thunderous applause, I realized the guy has a pretty good thing going, and I couldn't help but envy him.
I want to be Mickey Mouse.
He's at the top of a huge, multinational corporation, but his only job is to make people smile. He's the responsible one (compared to Donald and Goofy), but he's still mischievous and not afraid to explore the edges of his world (a la Sorceror's Apprentice). He knows what he's doing, except when he's not supposed to. He's able to make magic, and make people's lives magical. He's universally loved.
Hmmm, wonder if the Sorceror's Apprentice Apprentice position is open?
Goofy Endurance
Monday, January 11. 2010
Yesterday, I finished one of the hardest things I've ever done—I completed Goofy's Race and a Half Challenge at Walt Disney World. It's a test of endurance: the challenge is to run a half marathon (13.1 miles) through Epcot and the Magic Kingdom on Saturday, then come right back and run a full marathon (26.2 miles) through all four theme parks on Sunday.
I glided through the half marathon, taking it easy, enjoying the experience. The record-setting low temperatures didn't cool my enthusiasm in the least. And the next day, I felt good as I started the marathon. But around mile 10 or so of that race, I suddenly realized I wasn't going to be able to run very much more. My right knee was starting to twinge, and at one point my leg buckled a bit. The number of miles I'd covered in such a short period of time had started to take their toll.
Now the challenge became less about getting a decent time, enjoying the race, looking as poised as possible for the spectators—and more about survival.
I walked perhaps two-thirds of the 26.2 miles. Every mile or two I would try to run a bit, my knee would gently call for my attention, and I would stutter back to a brisk walk after a hundred yards or so. Walking most of the course made it seem endless. I knew, mentally, how much distance I had to go. Sixteen miles. Twelve miles. Eight miles. But despite my steady plodding, the finish line seemed almost out of reach.
Runners passed me continuously. I dearly wanted to break back into a jog. But I was more afraid of burning out and not being able to finish at all than I was of doing "a good job" on this second race. I repeated the mantra over and over: I wasn't racing against anyone but myself. It took discipline, but I succeeded in forcing myself to walk, and walk, and walk.
Finally, in the last few miles of the race, when I could almost see the big FINISH banner strung across a few parking spaces out in front of Spaceship Earth, I cranked up my "run fast" tracks on the iPod, and started to jog, then to run, and then, for the last 0.2 miles, to sprint, weaving around other runners and making a dash toward that goal. I high-fived Donald, crossed the finish line, got my Mickey medal, limped to the Goofy tent, and received the special (and heavy) Goofy medal along with a "Congratulations!" from the volunteer who hung it around my neck. I very nearly wept.
And, of course, I thought about writing.
December was bad for me, time-wise. The holidays, family visits, a big project at work, lots of distractions. So far, January has been little better. Another big project at work, a side project which suddenly came to the front burner, and, of course, Marathon Weekend. But as I've said before, writing is a marathon, not a sprint. I'm not going to worry about how I look doing it, how well I perform compared to other writers, or anything else other than to write, and write, and write.
I know that finish line has got to be around the next corner.
Yesterday, I finished one of the hardest things I've ever done—I completed Goofy's Race and a Half Challenge at Walt Disney World. It's a test of endurance: the challenge is to run a half marathon (13.1 miles) through Epcot and the Magic Kingdom on Saturday, then come right back and run a full marathon (26.2 miles) through all four theme parks on Sunday.
I glided through the half marathon, taking it easy, enjoying the experience. The record-setting low temperatures didn't cool my enthusiasm in the least. And the next day, I felt good as I started the marathon. But around mile 10 or so of that race, I suddenly realized I wasn't going to be able to run very much more. My right knee was starting to twinge, and at one point my leg buckled a bit. The number of miles I'd covered in such a short period of time had started to take their toll.
Now the challenge became less about getting a decent time, enjoying the race, looking as poised as possible for the spectators—and more about survival.
I walked perhaps two-thirds of the 26.2 miles. Every mile or two I would try to run a bit, my knee would gently call for my attention, and I would stutter back to a brisk walk after a hundred yards or so. Walking most of the course made it seem endless. I knew, mentally, how much distance I had to go. Sixteen miles. Twelve miles. Eight miles. But despite my steady plodding, the finish line seemed almost out of reach.
Runners passed me continuously. I dearly wanted to break back into a jog. But I was more afraid of burning out and not being able to finish at all than I was of doing "a good job" on this second race. I repeated the mantra over and over: I wasn't racing against anyone but myself. It took discipline, but I succeeded in forcing myself to walk, and walk, and walk.
Finally, in the last few miles of the race, when I could almost see the big FINISH banner strung across a few parking spaces out in front of Spaceship Earth, I cranked up my "run fast" tracks on the iPod, and started to jog, then to run, and then, for the last 0.2 miles, to sprint, weaving around other runners and making a dash toward that goal. I high-fived Donald, crossed the finish line, got my Mickey medal, limped to the Goofy tent, and received the special (and heavy) Goofy medal along with a "Congratulations!" from the volunteer who hung it around my neck. I very nearly wept.
And, of course, I thought about writing.
December was bad for me, time-wise. The holidays, family visits, a big project at work, lots of distractions. So far, January has been little better. Another big project at work, a side project which suddenly came to the front burner, and, of course, Marathon Weekend. But as I've said before, writing is a marathon, not a sprint. I'm not going to worry about how I look doing it, how well I perform compared to other writers, or anything else other than to write, and write, and write.
I know that finish line has got to be around the next corner.
I glided through the half marathon, taking it easy, enjoying the experience. The record-setting low temperatures didn't cool my enthusiasm in the least. And the next day, I felt good as I started the marathon. But around mile 10 or so of that race, I suddenly realized I wasn't going to be able to run very much more. My right knee was starting to twinge, and at one point my leg buckled a bit. The number of miles I'd covered in such a short period of time had started to take their toll.
Now the challenge became less about getting a decent time, enjoying the race, looking as poised as possible for the spectators—and more about survival.
I walked perhaps two-thirds of the 26.2 miles. Every mile or two I would try to run a bit, my knee would gently call for my attention, and I would stutter back to a brisk walk after a hundred yards or so. Walking most of the course made it seem endless. I knew, mentally, how much distance I had to go. Sixteen miles. Twelve miles. Eight miles. But despite my steady plodding, the finish line seemed almost out of reach.
Runners passed me continuously. I dearly wanted to break back into a jog. But I was more afraid of burning out and not being able to finish at all than I was of doing "a good job" on this second race. I repeated the mantra over and over: I wasn't racing against anyone but myself. It took discipline, but I succeeded in forcing myself to walk, and walk, and walk.
Finally, in the last few miles of the race, when I could almost see the big FINISH banner strung across a few parking spaces out in front of Spaceship Earth, I cranked up my "run fast" tracks on the iPod, and started to jog, then to run, and then, for the last 0.2 miles, to sprint, weaving around other runners and making a dash toward that goal. I high-fived Donald, crossed the finish line, got my Mickey medal, limped to the Goofy tent, and received the special (and heavy) Goofy medal along with a "Congratulations!" from the volunteer who hung it around my neck. I very nearly wept.
And, of course, I thought about writing.
December was bad for me, time-wise. The holidays, family visits, a big project at work, lots of distractions. So far, January has been little better. Another big project at work, a side project which suddenly came to the front burner, and, of course, Marathon Weekend. But as I've said before, writing is a marathon, not a sprint. I'm not going to worry about how I look doing it, how well I perform compared to other writers, or anything else other than to write, and write, and write.
I know that finish line has got to be around the next corner.
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