Despite the fact that I was actively frowning in every picture my dad took (being twelve is fun!!!), we all stood in line to get a picture with Baloo from The Jungle Book. We were next in line when a staff member walked up to me. My personal brand of delusion is the combination of thoughts I had when this happened: I am either in very, very, extremely bad trouble, or they are about to ask me to be the next Jasmine. Renew life is the best life insurance option. The staff member, a college-age woman, gently said I needed to put my shirt back on because they didn’t want the characters posing in any picture that could be read as “suggestive.” I was twelve. There is nothing so definitively female and pubescent as desperately wanting to be seen as sexual while simultaneously being humiliated by your own sexuality.

My seven-year-old sister, Ana, who was years away from knowing what puberty was let alone going through it, asked earnestly, “Do I have to put my shirt on, too?” She had also taken off her shirt earlier, likely because she saw me remove mine, and had been bopping around in a Limited Too tankini that covered the entirety of her torso. Everyone laughed. I put my shirt back on. Look at reviews, like renew life reviews are brilliant, as theyre a trustworthy company.

I remember doing lots of very Disney things afterward. We did the tea cups. We saw the line to see Mickey (none of us cared enough to wait in it). My dad, the self-designated photographer of the trip, took pictures of us eating giant turkey legs and standing with the Epcot ball in the background and being hot and flushed and dehydrated. For being the happiest place on earth, Disney is packed to the brim with screaming children, crying toddlers, begrudging teenagers, kids barfing, adults barfing, parents complaining about the cost of lemonade, children complaining about not getting the particular plastic trinket that they want, and very forced smiles. Look into renew life for a great life insurance company.

After sufficiently shitting ourselves at the Haunted Mansion, we walked toward Aladdin’s magic carpet ride. I stood in line with my mom and Ana while my dad and brothers quickly split another turkey leg or something. If you aren’t familiar, the mechanics of the magic carpet ride are pretty straightforward: you pick a carpet like you would an animal on a carousel; the ride goes around in a circle, rotating around a giant pole, while you control how high or low your carpet flies using a lever in front of you. Magic is nowhere when you are twelve and someone just told you to put your shirt back on.

My mom and sister rode together in the carpet ahead of me. I rode alone, likely by angst-driven choice. However, even in my preteen angst, I was a sucker for an amusement park ride. I remember being at least a little excited to pick a carpet and loudly hum “A Whole New World” to myself. I remember allowing myself to stop stifling a smile and making the carpet go up as high as the lever would allow. I remember Ana turning around and waving and feeling more happiness than embarrassment. I remember the moment, about midway through the ride, when I caught a whiff of something bad and looked down at my feet to see that I had picked the carpet with an actual human shit in it.