No gum on
the ground. No muddy footprints, even
after rain. We notice that the trashcans
gleam in their own freshly-Windexed splendor.
I turn to
The Husband—it is obvious from the look on his face that he is thinking the
same exact thing I am.
He exclaims,
“We could move here! We could work at
Disney World and everything will be clean and shiny forever!”
Actually, I
was thinking of getting the name and phone number for their cleaning service,
but his idea might be a lot easier.
Walking
around Disney makes us want to be neater and cleaner, too. We see someone drop their receipt on the
ground, and instead of handing it back to them or stopping to examine it and
try to memorize their credit card number like I might normally do, I throw it
in the trashcan. When my younger son “accidentally”
kicks mulch onto the sidewalk, we make him put it back in a neatly patterned
formation, the way God and Disney intended.
When I feel beads of sweat threaten to drip down my face from the
nuclear-melting powers of the Florida sun, I reach to wipe them off with a
tissue before they can get on anything, anything that might make Disney World
less than perfect.
Because that
is what Disney is, right? Perfect? The workers are friendly to a fault, and just
when we think it is all fiction, one of them will say that he is also from San
Diego and where did I go to high school, or another will say that her oldest
son is also named Tall. These people
want to be our friends, and I suddenly feel compelled to invite them over for dinner
next week.
But that
would require cleaning the house …
 |
| Mosaics at EPCOT that I saw a worker scrubbing with a toothbrush ... I can't compete with that |
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