Child at Heart, Adult at Checkout
Theme Parks Are for Kids — So Why Do I Feel So at Home?
There I was, standing near Disneyland's castle, clutching a souvenir popcorn bucket shaped like a Mickey balloon, when it hit me: Was I too old for this? Too queer? Too much?
A place that seems to quietly whisper, this is for the children—while charging adult prices and offering zero child-sized portions of joy—should feel like a mismatch. And yet, there I was, grinning like it was my first visit.
It was at that moment that I was reminded of something important: Theme parks aren't just for kids. Sure, they're designed with little ones in mind, but it's the grown-ups who foot the bill, plan the itineraries, and, most importantly, decide to embrace the full-throttle thrill of it all. We choose to ignore the silent rules that say joy has an age limit, that this kind of fun is reserved for those without wrinkles, without mortgage payments
The Merch Paradox: "For Kids," But Paid for By Adults (Hi, It's Me.)
There's a tension I feel every time I walk through the gift shops of my favorite parks. Take Universal's soon-to-debut Epic Universe line: rainbow-bright shirts, dragon-worthy bucket hats, plushies practically begging to take pride of place on my adult bookshelves (right between a pop star prayer candle and a coffee table book no one's ever actually read). I want it all, and more.
But then there's that moment when I picture myself draped in a starry, over-the-top hoodie, and I feel it. The glance. That subtle judgment from other adults, as if indulging in joy past a certain age is suspect.
And here's the thing: it's not kids swiping credit cards at checkout—it's us. We're not just paying customers; we're the full-time caretakers of our inner child. And let me tell you, my inner child? He's demanding. He insists on a limited-edition park-scented candle to burn while I document my weekly grievances about amusement entertainment. But that's the beauty of it: our inner children are our responsibility, and sometimes, they need to remind us that life doesn't have to be all grown-up seriousness. We need to allow ourselves to indulge, to play, to feel that raw, unapologetic joy that doesn't come with an expiration date.
Boysenberries and Breaking the Mold
Knott's Berry Farm's Boysenberry Festival, now underway, is a perfect example of this defiance in action. It's pure, unapologetic excess—berry-infused beers, berry-smothered barbecue, milkshakes so towering, they could practically be classified as architecture. The air would be sticky-sweet, a mix of jam and smoke, as if the entire park has been coated in boysenberry syrup.
Imagine adults lingering at the edges of the spectacle, clutching sensible drinks, as their kids dive headfirst into the sugar rush. It's as though joy has been silently cordoned off by age—this is for the young, for the carefree, for those without responsibilities. But what if we decided to throw that unspoken rule out the window?
What if we decided to lean into the excess instead? What if we ordered the most outrageous boysenberry milkshake on the menu? Crowned with a full-sized donut, dripping with syrup, piled high with an almost scandalous amount of whipped cream. A milkshake so over-the-top, it feels like a quiet act of rebellion. (Sorry stomach...)
And as you take that first sip—cool, tart, absurdly sweet—you don't just feel the sugar rush. You feel something deeper, almost as if it's the thrill of defiance. You feel the freedom of choosing delight over restraint. It's radical to let yourself have joy, to claim it without apology, without worrying about who might be judging from the sidelines. Picture the berry-stained grin, the whipped cream stripe across your lip, the BBQ sauce dripping down your wrist. Laundry can wait. This moment can't.
Because sometimes, joy looks like leaning all the way into the spectacle. Sometimes, it's loud, sticky, and a little ridiculous. And there's nothing childish about that. If anything, the most grown-up thing we can do is reclaim our right to enjoy life without shame.
The Real Magic Trick: Belonging
Back in the Magic Kingdom, as fireworks exploded in the sky above, I looked down at the merchandise I'd collected throughout the day—colorful, loud, and unapologetic. In that moment, I realized: this is my celebration.
Every time I step into that park, every time I lean into the spectacle, I'm sending out that invitation: come as you are, and enjoy as much as you can. The world doesn't have to tell us when we've had enough fun. We get to decide that for ourselves.
Written by Daryl Marez | Hiya! Subscribe to my author newsletter to receive news & project updates—Check out my other links for more.