Some people, when using "guided imagery" or some version of mindfulness like it, will go to the beach.  White sand, blue ocean, yellow sun and all of that.  But all I can think of is sunburn, ugly people in revealing bathing suits, and sand in places I didn't even know I had places.

Other people like to take a walk by a creek in the woods.  Mosquitos, mud, and dirty nature are not my thing either.  Plus there are birds in the woods and I am terrified of birds.

No, for me the most relaxing imagery is when I close my eyes and walk under that train station on to Main Street, USA.  There's Cinderella Castle up ahead and I can smell the cinnamon rolls from the Main Street Bakery - well, before it became a Starbucks.  I take a left turn past the Crystal Palace and walk over that wooden bridge into Adventureland, where the sounds of native drums and jungle animals subtly plays in the background.  Eventually I make my way back to that Spanish village, enter the dark, damp, and wonderful hallway towards the boats on Pirates of the Caribbean.

Forget the fact that it's crowded. Or expensive.  There's real magic at Walt Disney World. And it's where I'd rather be - always and forever.

You’d have a difficult time finding two more loving people. And once you’re in our circle, you’re in for life. We’ll go to the ends of the earth to show our support, too. Sometimes literally.

Just ask people like Jesse, who we’ve driven 3 hours to see in one scene in what felt like a 14 hour play. Or Austin, who we drove 4 hours to see in a fantastic musical - and then immediately drove four hours back home. That was an interesting day, as we were running late thanks to one-lane traffic through the mountain-tunnel into downtown Pittsburgh. Once we found an open parking garage, we literally ran the sidewalks of the city, picked up our tickets and will call, and made our way up to the balcony.

The usher was very sweet; she assured us that it was OK and we’d only missed the opening number. But the rude woman seated at the end of our aisle refused to stand up and let us in. We apologized profusely as we bulldozed our way into the row. As Sheila climbed over her the woman said, “Next time leave earlier.”

Excuse us? We had a four hour trip to get here, ma’am. We were up at the buttcrack of dawn, made as few stops as humanly possible, and had no idea that there would be bumper to bumper one-lane traffic for the last 10 miles of our trip! But we’re so sorry to inconvenience you for five seconds during an inconsequential section of The Wedding Singer. Oh, and just in case you didn’t know - it has a happy ending so relax!

Lucky for everyone, including Sheila and I, I didn’t hear her comment until Sheila told me at intermission at which point I settled for giving her quiet but mean-mug stares the rest of the afternoon. Eventually we got to see Austin after the show, give him hugs, and take him to dinner before he had to go back on stage for the evening performance. We drove home without incident.

We’ve had other epic road trip adventures to be sure but perhaps it was our 12 hour road trip to Little Rock to see Dave that provided us with the best stories.

We decided to rent a car and split the cost. Little did we know that when we booked it that we would be driving the smallest car ever invented. You’ve seen the Shriner’s drive their tiny cars in parades, making a figure eight along the parade route? That could have been us.

The personality-deficient rental counter clerk said “you’re in the Toyota Yaris at the end of Row B.” Sheila thought she said “Taurus,” which would have been thrilling. I thought she said “TARDIS,” which would have been a tighter fit but we would have probably met Dr. Who. Alas, it was a miniature vehicle, made for Keebler Elves to deliver their Fudge cookies in.

For Sheila this is no big deal; she’s a petite woman who can fit almost anywhere. But I’m six-foot-three-and-two-third-inches tall and I weigh somewhere in the “off the scale” category. I don’t fit in clown cars.

I wedged myself in the passenger seat and Sheila drove the first leg of our six-hundred mile journey. Our plan was to stop in Louisville at the first Arby’s we could find.

We love Arby’s; it’s usually a good value and the quality of food is almost always above average. There was one time, though, where we went to what must have been a backwoods version just south of Columbus, Ohio where we watched some unbelievably high drama unfold behind the food line. First, they were unable to accept credit cards. This was really no big deal, but it obviously had taken its toll on the manager. His white shock of hair was standing on edge, his uniform shirt untucked, and he looked like he’d rather be anywhere else than assembling roast beef sandwiches.

The woman who took our order was bizarre. It was unclear whether or not she could read and even more unclear if she knew she was at work. She was scowling blankly as she took our order, but it’s also entirely possible she was mid-stroke. It took us a very long time to receive our food. The dining room was filthy. The other guests were a mixed bag; the locals seemed accustomed to the environment. The folks, like us traveling down the highway to somewhere else wavered between amusement, disgust, and confusion.

We were always hopeful that this kind of thing didn’t happen, of course. But first we had to get there and the traffic between Cincinnati and Louisville was not cooperating, especially as we got closer and closer to the Kentucky city. I was playing Dave in the passenger seat, trying to find the best standup comedy routines I’d discovered on Pandora while intermixing some Beatles songs in (they’d just been released to streaming services.)

I looked over at Sheila and recognized that some silence might be helpful as the traffic continued to jam in front of us. Normally she is patient, relaxed, and accepting of benign circumstances like bad traffic. But she really had to pee. There were no options for this at the moment - there was no way to exit the highway in this particular part of the city - and the situation was becoming more dire with each passing moment.

I sat gripping the armrest to my right, recognizing that I was helpless with words and action in this scenario. It was best that I just remained empathetically quiet. The other cars - and the drivers in them - were the biggest idiots and meanest, most malicious morons ever born. As the immediacy of the crisis grew, so did Sheila’s anger.

I shrunk in my seat, doing my best to appear invisible. I thought this was the best course of action. Yet, it was a difficult task given the MatchBox-sized space of the cab in the tiny Yardis. Part of my silence was historical; several years ago on a Disney trip we’d taken together I thought it would be funny to document via video footage how often we had to stop touring the park so that Sheila could use the facilities. She wasn’t amused, or at least pretended not to be. The videos are funny, though.

This particular situation was more dire and her emotions more palpable. We eventually made it through the city and pulled off the first exit, which circumstantially was home to an Arby’s. Our tires probably squealed as Sheila rammed in a parking spot, jammed the car into park, and ran for the bathroom. As we debriefed over roast beef sandwiches, she made a decision.

“Next time, I’m wearing Depends.”