I'm a fully grown, mature, tax-paying adult, I swear. Really. I am. And most of the time, I walk around with normal, mature adult emotions, thinking normal, mature adult thoughts. Global warming. National elections. How many calories are in ketchup? Why does Karl Rove look like a muppet? Normal stuff.

And then...

Me: "Can we go to Disneyland for my birthday?"

Husband: "If you want."

And that's when the wheels came off the mental wagon. In my own defense, I'm from Missouri. Family vacations were taken to the Ozarks. (Yes, that's exactly as much fun as you would think it would be. Exactly.) Either Disney park might as well have been on Mars for all the likelihood that we would ever go there.

Not that I was particularly deprived. Nobody I knew in my town went there. You only got to go if you had a rare and terminal illness and were chosen by a telethon charity to have your dying wish come true. Disneyland was very much like heaven. It might be great, but you had to die to get there.

And now, hurdling at an alarming pace toward 30, I'm printing out park maps and plotting my funnel cake pit stops in between the Pirates of the Caribbean and the Teacups with nary a terminal illness in sight.

I'm giddy. I'm beside myself. I'm six years old. I want an ice cream bar shaped like Mickey's head.

But I am not hugging any teenagers in smelly mascot costumes or buying plastic mouse ears. I still have my dignity....most of it, anyway.