What happens when the best day for one is not the best day for everyone?

And what if something totally unexpected happens?

First, the weather forecast: Cloudy. Partial sun. Chance of rain. The plan: New Jersey. 6 Flags. The-Youngest’s 2^nd MUST-DO.

We didn’t have a car in NY so my first job was – Get a car.

So, I got up early and walked to the car rental place, a small box of an office in an underground parkade that smelled like part urinal, part garbage bin.  It wasn’t far, about 20 min walk, but by the time I got there, I was covered in sweat. It was 8am and it was already that hot and humid.

Ack. Maybe New Jersey would be different.

Getting out of the city wasn’t a problem. I thought it would be. New York drivers are not known for their patience and though I was looking forward to being sworn at in 300 languages, I didn’t want to have to exchange gunfire with anyone (mostly because I didn’t have a gun, I had a pen.)

Getting on the highway wasn’t a problem. The other drivers weren’t a problem. Finding the park wasn’t a problem. What was a problem? There was no gas in the tank when I picked it up. It was on ¼.

It was something I should have checked, especially since I picked the car up in an underground parkade that smelled of urine and garbage.

We filled up at a truck stop just inside the New Jersey border. It was the size of Victoria. According to my calculations, gas was either $22.18 a litre or $1.39/L (I’m not good at math, but I suspect the latter was correct). It was $1.82 when we left Vancouver.

We filled up, got some snacks, but I was not happy with the rental firm. Who leaves a tank empty?

Now, to the park. It was bigger than I thought, with a nice entrance, a cute little ‘town’ inside the gates, and not a lot of people wandering around. Screams of fear and glee filled our ears. The air smelled of sunscreen (us), cinnamony churros, and BBQ’d meat. Hot sun baked us from above and The-Prettiest-Girl-in-the-World and I longed for a park with a lazy river.

No matter, the boys charged off. All the rides are here, but first up was the Joker. Not a hard ride, but there was no way in hell I’d do it. If I did, the first time it flipped upside down, I would throw out my back, then the first time it took a fast, tight turn, I’d wreck my neck, and the first big dive down, I would scream like a two-year-old getting a haircut. Also, I’d likely vomit like a child possessed by the exorcist demon.

I had become more of the kiddies Dumbo ride person.

So, we let the boys run around to the various rides. We had purchased fast-passes so they didn’t have to wait in line. I know, I know, those are not cheap, but here’s my thinking: It’s always a time vs. money battle, but since we only had a day here, hours spent in line (in the baking heat) would be terrible. So, we spent some money. Also, it was one of The Youngest’s two MUST-DOs, so we MUST-DO properly—VIP-like.

The-Youngest and his brother rode the Devil the most, but by noon, The-Oldest, like an old person, had run out of steam, and the rides were making him dizzy. Here’s the surprise, though. The same was happening to The-Youngest.

As you get older, do you start not to love roller coasters anymore? Can this be a thing?

Next thing you know, The-Youngest will no longer want to mountain bike because it throws out his hip or he starts complaining about ‘kids these days.’

Not that it stopped The-Youngest from spending the whole day riding coasters, but it made him cancel his plans to ride all the roller coasters in the American East (and there are hundreds and hundreds of them.) I think he said he’d be taking up knitting.

The highlight for The-Youngest was the terrifyingly high and Joe-Killing Kingda Ka.

No, I didn’t go on it, nor did I want to go on it, nor did I even imagine going on it. It was a ride, well, hell, just look at the picture. I think it reached the moon.

Everyone who rode it screamed the moment it shot off, and that drop… omg. OMFG.

The Youngest loved it, though. It was the tallest death machine in the world, and he knew who built it, when it was built, why it’s here, what it was made out of, and how many people died on it (not a billion like I thought; the answer was none).

The-Prettiest-Girl-in-the-World and I sat in the shade where I realized I had lost the ability to sit cross-legged without being in a lot of old-age pain. Good lord. How sad.

We did only two rides as a family (due to another three that we might have done being down). We did the Roaring Rapids where, for the first time in my life, I was happy to get soaked with cold water.

However, as feared, when we did Skull Mountain, a simple, basic ride meant for six-year-olds, The-Prettiest-Girl-in-the-World threw out her neck and I buggered up my back.

Ack, old age, I tell you, it sucks as bad as watching The Rings of Power while getting a cavity drilled without anesthesia.

But the boys had fun, even in the heat.

The two adults, though, with all that walking, the pain of being old, and the price of 4 reusable cups costing as much as a university degree kinda beat the hell out of The-Prettiest-Girl-in-the-World and I. We lost our smiles at about 1. By 5, we looked like we’d been on a forced march through Afghanistan without water.

For The-Youngest, it was a BEST day (hey, he rode the Kingda Ka thingee, the back-breaking El Toro [twice] and Nitro).  For The-Oldest, an ok day. He didn’t throw up, something The-Youngest cannot say. He didn’t pass out on a ride. Something The-Youngest cannot say. He didn’t hurt himself on any of the rides, something I cannot say.

All in all, I win. I love it when my family is happy, but make no mistake, that day broke The-Prettiest-Girl-in-the-World.

We would have to find a way to make it up to her.