Last Saturday, a group of us went to Six Flags America and realized very quickly that we are a lot older than we like to admit. We started the day on the Superman rollercoaster; the first ride was so awesome, we immediately got in line to do it again. Ride number two was not so awesome. We realized how little it takes to make a bunch of thirty-year-olds feel nauseous.
Or ridiculous, as clearly evidenced by Matt, the one lone male lost in a sea of estrogen while (halfheartedly) attempting a Chicken Dance mime.
So the day became cyclical: scary ride, kiddie ride, eat, repeat. And then we ended the day at the pool - okay, so Matt and I ended the day at the pool bar where we proceeded to get no service for over an hour (I'm serious, not even one, single beer was offered, despite the plantive, mewling cries of Matt beside me), but we could see the pool from where we sat and that pretty much counts as far as I am concerned.
We even came home with souvenirs. Two to four week souvenirs. What's not to love?
Luckily for us, Anna, our nine-year-old chaperone, made it look good. She also gave us plenty of cover for acting like fellow nine-year-olds. Let me just tell you that she is one hell of a bumper car driver and leave it at that.
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