Disney World is not in my future. Nor is it in my past. It's in my pre-nup.
You can look it up.
"Are you taking the kids to Disney World?" a fellow soccer parent asks.
This is absurd. In the first place, I never thought I would be a soccer mom. I've had no preparation - my childhood weekends were spent at antiwar demonstrations or drama class - and suspect I lack the proper paraphernalia.
To be fair, our indoor soccer team sports as many exuberant dads, and the games have become the high point of our weekends. So there - you can be surprised by life's curveballs or, in this case, offside kicks.
Pleasure surfaces in the most remote corners. It's a nice surprise to find yourself in a place you never thought to find yourself, and loving it.
But not Orlando.
Disney World is in my pre-nup because it's a cliche to go there. OK, many things are a cliche - Venice is a cliche - but this one is positively Mickey Mouse, exhibiting no creativity and less risotto. Disney already has too much of my money, what with the movies about the talking fish and the one about the talking toys and the damage done in the Pooh years.