Disney Adults

… or Mousejunkies — as author Bill Burke likes to call them — are devout fans of The Walt Disney Company.  These adults may enjoy visiting Disney theme parks, watching Disney movies, or collecting Disney merchandise. 

The internet likes to hate on them for being “cringe.” But are Disney adults any more “cringe” than Potterheads or Marvelites? After all, these are just nerds who are more open about their nerdiness. Plenty of us have goofy hobbies or dorky interests. We’re just better at hiding them.

The truth is that I have a soft spot for Disney Adults: partially because I want to protect people’s joy, and partially because I was raised by two self-proclaimed mousejunkies. 

Yes, I’m afraid it’s true. My parents don’t Disneybound as Belle and the Beast, nor do they binge watch Disney films all day long. But my parents love, love, love the Disney theme parks. They tear up at the sight of Cinderella’s Castle. They own Mickey sweatshirts. They love a good spin around The Carousel of Progress. They are as close to Disney Adults as Gen X can get. 

My mother is easy to imagine in this way. She has kept her childhood stuffed animal, Pluto , on her dresser for years. She enjoys watching musicals and baking cookies. She’s an elementary school teacher with an airy laugh. 

But those who know my father find this reality difficult to imagine. My father, the tough guy who still smokes Marlboro Reds in 2025. My dad, whose nickname is The Duke and has a garage filled with Bruce Lee posters. Who wears his blue bathrobe Tony-Soprano-Style on our deck, drinking a cup of coffee and talking in that thick Brooklyn accent of his. Yes, this man adores Disney World. 

Despite his brutish exterior, my father has a soft side. He always likes to say “life is about being a kid.” Which is his way of saying protect your happiness. Be in touch with your inner child.

I’ll never forget my dad joyfully blurting out, “I feel like a kid again!” after riding Pirates of the Caribbean one time. I was probably ten or eleven years old by that point, and we had definitely done the Pirates ride on previous trips to Disney. But he said it as if he had only just realized the truth of it —  a confession rather than an aside. 

The weight of it almost flattened me: to think that my dad felt like a little boy again. From then on, I didn’t like to complain when my parents announced we were going yet again to the “most magical place” on earth. I didn’t want to spoil what seemed so precious and rare to feel. 

But it got old, of course. I certainly was excited about Disney World as a child: the months of anticipation, the time out of school (although I did really like school) and even being tasked with pre-trip research. My mother and I would hop onto Youtube for hours, watching poor-quality videos of rides taken on Sony handycams (this was the dawn before influencers, mind you). Sometimes, she’d request a Disney Parks DVD to be sent in the mail. 

And when it would arrive a few days later, we’d watch it that same night: rolling our eyes at every stupid joke the host made  — but also jotting down the crucial information that was shared. This is the latest ride. Here is a must-eat restaurant. That is where you will find the best merchandise. There was an exhilaration to the madness, knowing that I was contributing to a list that would eventually become our schedule in the theme park. The place that made all of us so happy.

But that unfortunately changed for me in my teens. To simply say, “I grew out of it” would be a half-lie. It was more complicated than that. 

The first part that began to bug me was the twenty-one hour drive. We always drove from Connecticut to Florida; we never once flew in. For me, the hours spent road tripping alone painted the trip the most miserable shade of blue. I’d stare out the window, claustrophobic, waiting for it to end. I’d scroll on my iPod Touch until I was carsick or it died. Utterly alone at that point (my younger brother sitting next to me), I’d think about all the usual things that torment teenage girls: stressing about where I will go to college; wondering why that crush didn’t like me back; and trying to not think about how much I needed to pee (because the rest stop was still miles and miles away). 

Once we arrived at the parks, I began to feel insecure about being spotted there. Why was I, a teenager, waiting in line to ride Peter Pan?  I’m certain that some of this stemmed from the general embarrassment teenagers have about being spotted anywhere. And truly, I had nowhere to hide. All I could do was shamefully grin when my mom wanted us to pose for photos in front of the castle.

Other things started to weigh on me, too. Roller coasters I once rode with ease were now making me motion sick. Treats that I once looked forward to devouring were now giving me doubts: do I really need these calories? And worst of all, my dad and I would always have one big fight that made everything awkward. I couldn’t help but feel I was letting him down, and he couldn’t figure out why I was so sad. In the end, I stopped going on family trips as a favor to everyone, but mostly myself. (I think I was also a bit bewildered by my declining interest in something that once gave me so much joy. The loss frightened me. So I abandoned it.)

I realize how dramatic, bratty, or spoiled this all may make me seem. I recognize that it was quite a privilege to be able to go to the theme parks so many times. Some people can only dream of visiting Disney World or Disneyland, otherwise living vicariously through its online content. I also recognize how hard my parents worked to make the trip happen each year. That fact was never lost on me. But it also seemed impossible to explain to people. How do you keep telling people you’re going somewhere so expensive — and hated on — all the time? And worse, how could I seem so ungrateful, so unaware of this fortune?

My only real defense is this: this was the only kind of vacation I ever knew. We didn’t go anywhere else — just Disney World, over and over — for years. We did the same terrible car ride there and back each time. We rode mostly the same rides and ate mostly the same foods. 

And always, my dad had that bright look of hope on his face, that “I feel like a little kid again” glow. It made me feel rotten to think of spoiling his happiness. But the anticipatory anxiety was, somehow, worse. 

All of this is to say that I haven’t been back to Disney World with my family in over a decade. My parents still go here and there — they’re also fans of Universal Studios, now — but we haven’t walked down Main Street U.S.A. together in a long time. 

In the end, I want to think that my Disney sobriety was to preserve a potential future relationship with the parks. After all, maybe I will one day have children. Maybe they’ll want to go. I’m not going to deny them that experience, am I? 

What I didn’t anticipate was my Serbian in-laws would somehow become a part of this equation.

***

A couple of months ago, on a particularly chilly day, my sister-in-law and I began to weigh the possibility of her visiting the States this year. 

“What if you came to the city for a week? This week,” I asked her, innocently. It was the end of December; the worst time to come to New York, in my opinion. “We could go to the Met? Or Broadway?”

“I want to come, but I can’t,” she replied, explaining that her new college schedule demanded her full attendance. 

“Well, what about the summer?” I asked. (An equally terrible time to visit New York.)

“My parents already have plans. Maybe September?” she reasoned. “The weather is nice.” 

“It’s better, but I always start teaching in September,” I reasoned back. “The beginning of the school year is too chaotic for me. What about October?”

We went back to weighing the pros and cons of summer possibilities. But then we landed on an idea so outlandish and unexpected that I couldn’t believe we were considering it: a trip to Florida.

“You’ve never seen palm trees,” I said to her, knowing very well she has seen beautiful palm trees in Greece. “These are even better palm trees,” I lied.

“I mean, I’ve never seen that part of the U.S…” she bargained.

“We’ll go to the beach,” I said, picking up speed, now. “It’ll be an actual beach, since the beach in Connecticut is apparently not good enough for your brother.”

“Those are his words,” she clarified. “I still want to see a beach in Connecticut. But Florida …” 

“We could do Florida,” I said. And then, to my complete surprise, I uttered the infamous six words I didn’t think I’d ever say again: “We could go to Disney World.”

“Oh my god. We have to go! We’re going!” she cried. “Wait until I tell Veljko. He won’t believe it.” 

The call ended a few minutes later; the odd promise of Disney plans hung in the air. I couldn’t exactly place the emotion I felt at that time. Strange? Excited? Bittersweet? Maybe all of those things. I knew I wanted to see the look on my husband’s face when he sees the castle — his sister’s face, too. But then I wondered: is this why my dad always booked another trip? To see the look on our faces? Guilt, again, radiated through me as though I’d stepped on a moon jelly. 

It’s bizarre to feel so complicated about something that makes most people either roll their eyes or jump up and down. Here I am, having this complex human experience — while most people will reduce these events to a ridiculous epiphany, minimizing it to the straight facts. So she figured out she wants to go back to Disney World? That’s the big reveal?

I guess it is, reader. Which is proof that things change. Or that I’m changing. Is there a real difference?

Maybe now that it’s me (and Aleksa) pulling the strings, I’ll discover a fondness for Disney that unjustly died in the midst of my teenage angst. I remember a time when it all still felt exciting; when getting photos with Winnie the Pooh seemed like the highest accomplishment I’d ever reach.

More importantly, I want my in-laws to get the full experience. To decide for themselves what to make of this adventure. No matter what, I know this will be a once-in-a-lifetime trip for all of us: me, Aleksa, my in-laws, and my parents. 

Yes, those Disney Adults are coming, too. 

Sincerely,

That American Girl