The next day, Mickey himself delivers the news: "Up and at 'em, pal! Ooooh boy, are we glad you're here. Big doin's goin' on, so let's get started!" It's my wake-up call in his grating falsetto.
Little rat. Walt Disney World is not the sort of place to be hungover, or grouchy, or in the throes of a marital Armageddon, or sick of your children. Trained as "messengers of the magic," the Disney staff is prepared for the dark side. "Goooood morning!" says a doorman dressed in--I don't know what--antebellum chic?
"Umh," I respond, dodging his smile.
"Uh-oh," he persists. "Let's get you a coffee," which he does. "What did you do last night?"
"Went dancing."
"Where are you off to now?"
"Play golf."
"Well now, that's not such a bad life, is it?"
I realize that once again I've been duped in a world where being delusional is, strangely, the point.
