During a recent conversation with a native New Yorker friend during this frigid and dank winter, we began talking of our dreams of warmer weather and nearby beaches. The repartée landed on talk of some destinations I knew of, like, The Hamptons, Long Beach, the Far Rockaways and finally, Coney Island. And then, like gangbusters, the conversation turned to those exciting and fun features of Coney Island, like, the crowds, and then…the rollercoasters. Right away, I remembered being a little girl from Baltimore. Starting when I was about nine or 10- years old, and “tall enough to ride this ride”, I loved a rollercoaster. With my father driving, we would make an annual pilgrimage to Kings Dominion. My dad would drive me, a friend, and one or both of my brothers, and their friends, to Kings D., a big Virginia amusement park a several- hour drive from our home in Baltimore. To let loose of all inhibitions while riding on a fully supervised contraption meant to “make my stomach drop” and make me feel weightless was my biggest dream.

The anticipation of these types of highs were paramount in my young sheltered life.

            I could never sleep the night before.

I was convinced that no mishaps, or calamities, ever happened on these widely used entertainment vehicles, either. And if disasters did occur, they happened at amusement parks I didn’t go to. 

They were somebody else’s problem. 

            But my, how things have changed since those days of old?!

            Life for me today at age 40 is just as exalting as it is unfriendly. For me now, day-to-day life doesn’t warrant hours of waiting in line for one of these so-called joyrides, but it does warrant unexpected calamities—calamities anticipated enough that they are no longer considered shocking events, but life.

Today I don’t long for the suspense, the weightlessness, or the exhilaration that results from one of these oversized contraptions. 

I can, and do, achieve the stomach-dropping sensation without even having to go anywhere!

“I can worry myself into a deep dark place anytime I want. I’m a real adult. Who will I marry, will I have kids? How will I afford them? What line of work should I be pursuing? Whose opinion on any this should I care about getting, anyway?”

When I begin to worry about anything having to do with my future, I return to memories of my 40th birthday party that took place back in January here in NYC. My dearest friends were all in attendance. How fabulous. A collection of friends I’d grown close to over the 13 years of living in NYC, as well as some of my very best friends from college. Between the accommodating bar staff and my brilliant and kind friends, I was in heaven. Everyone was jovial and happy. That’s all I want out of life. 

Humor and happiness.

These people are intellectual, interesting, and funny. 

Just as rollercoasters no longer suit me, neither does the negativity of relations who think they know me.

And believe you me, thrill and apprehension are the last sensations I need added to my current day-to-day life. The occasional exhilaration of a rollercoaster certainly doesn’t make the pain and effort of getting on one worth it. 

I refuse to bear these painful people just to potentially have a few joyful minutes with them “for old time’s sake.” These joyless relations of mine don’t make me happy now. 

Now is when I need to be happy, not 20 years ago, or 20 years from now.

For me now, no amount of time on one of these rides is a good time. 

No amount of time with dull, negative people is a good time, either. 

I’ve outgrown rollercoasters.

(I’ve changed—now I want bumper cars, anyway.)