Single Rider, Double Takes
The Queer Joy of Skipping the Stroller Crowds
There's a certain electric magic to being a lone rider in a sea of families. It's like the universe leans in, whispers, "This is your moment," and you take it, gliding past strollers, diaper bags, and the chorus of toddler meltdowns. Sure, it's faster through the turnstiles, but that's only the surface of it. There's a deeper joy—a quiet victory in claiming a space that wasn't exactly made for you.
For most, a theme park is a sacred, family-centric utopia with chaos, joy, and stress all wrapped up in one big, happy bundle. But for the queer soul who's childless by choice, that moment of bypassing the stroller crowd? It's practically a micro-act of rebellion. It’s not just about skipping lines: it's about skipping the whole damn expectation that you should be anything other than yourself in these spaces that weren't designed with your kind in mind.
And can we talk about the looks? The sideways glances, the raised eyebrows, as you—the singular, unaccompanied adult—strut past the stroller brigade. At first, it's easy to feel like an imposter, like you've stumbled into a space you weren't invited to. But then something clicks: you're the one who owns it. Those double-takes? It's not judgment; it's curiosity, maybe even a little excitement. Maybe it's the spark of someone wondering, "What's it like to live without those expectations, without the tiny humans and endless responsibilities?"
In those moments, you realize that this is your playground now. The world might not have made space for you, but you’re here, making your own rules.
The Queer Art of Taking Up Space
Queer folks know exactly what it's like to glide through life sidestepping expectations, speed-walking through spaces that weren’t made for us but somehow feel like they should be. Whether it's holding hands with a partner as the fireworks burst above or sneaking a cheeky moment on a classic ride, there's a distinct joy in owning the unexpectedness of our presence.
Being a single rider isn't just practical; it's a statement: I am here, and I'm having just as much fun... If not more. No stroller can hold me back, no schedule of nap times can dictate my experience. I am the architect of my own itinerary, free to dive into whimsy without worrying about sticky fingers or juice box drama. This is queer joy. It’s uncensored, untamed, unapologetically mine.
Let's get real for a second: there's a certain playfulness to it all. Have you noticed the subtle competition among families? The strollers lining up at the gates, parents huddled in a strategic huddle like they’re plotting world domination? But as a solo rider, you're free to follow wherever the wind (or the line) takes you. You can dart from ride to ride, carving your own path with a wink to the workers who exchange knowing smiles. No one's meltdown needs to be factored into your plan, and you can linger an extra minute, savoring the magic in a way that only an unburdened adult can.
A Line of Our Own
There's a special kind of magic in creating your own family—whether it's chosen, found, or simply the singular joy of being enough all on your own. Skipping the stroller crowds is a metaphor for life: we carve out spaces where we don't necessarily belong in the traditional sense, and in doing so, we claim them as our own. So next time you're standing in line, alone but not lonely, remember that there's power in that pause. And when you catch someone giving you that double take, don’t forget to smile. After all, you're exactly where you’re supposed to be.
It's not just about skipping lines or grabbing the best seat. It's about staking our claim in a world that constantly tries to define us by others' rules. It's the quiet, almost subversive power of the single rider line. One person, one experience, unfettered by the constraints that don't apply to us. We're not trying to fit in, but somehow, we fit perfectly anyway.
So when you see that lone rider zipping by (no stroller, no kids, no fuss) know this: they're right where they want to be. There's no one way to experience the magic, and the park? It's big enough for all of us. It's better with us in it, actually. And just like the single rider line, we're here, making our own way, unapologetically claiming our joy.
Written by Daryl Marez | Hiya! Subscribe to my author newsletter to receive news & project updates—Check out my other links for more.