My Achy Breaky Fun-o-meter

It's official. I can't fall for that forced fun anymore. I'm just not so good at pretending now that I've been paired with a man who has no reservations when it comes to saying, "This sucks and is stupid," even as I'm trying to push rays of sunshine out of my eyes with all the focusing on the positive I'm doing.

Labor Day weekend is when my fun-o-meter had its first significant calibration. After packing a crafty lunch and a cooler of beer, loaded down with good intentions for spending one of my four paid holidays a year with friends, Mack and I spent two hours crawling 30 miles through traffic to go to a beach that was halfway covered with a tarp. Anytime Mack and I spend two hours cramped in 10 square feet of space, our love erupts into molten hot lava and we leave each other blistered and dark. Anytime we spend two hours cramped in 10 square feet of space and arrive at a tarp covered beach when we could have walked seven blocks and arrived at an enormous expanse of open beach, well, he wants to kill me and I can't pretend it's fun anymore.

Last night, my fun-o-meter was squashed to smithereens. Halloween is my favorite holiday of the year, and last Halloween, me, Mack and Ruble went to Halloween Horror Nights at Universal Studios. It took two hours to get there (did I mention it's about 20 miles away?), but we were able to park quickly and get in in a reasonable amount of time. My fun-o-meter was sort of in limbo as to whether it would be fun, but when I turned to look at Ruble and saw the face of Norman Bates' mother between us and went screaming down the studio street, my fun-o-meter soared to new heights. Halloween Horror Nights had redeemed itself.

Since last year ended up being more fun than work, I thought this year we'd try the Knott's Scary Farm (at Knott's Berry Farm) Halloween event. With my smile strapped to my face and a ukulele strapped to Mack to keep him from realizing how long it was taking us to get there, we headed out on yet another two hour journey to go 30 miles.

When we finally arrived, the fun-o-meter was teetering. We pulled into the parking lot and pulled through the parking lot and pulled out of the parking lot and pulled onto the street in front of Knott's Berry Farm and pulled onto a street five blocks from Knott's Berry Farm and pulled back into the traffic to get into Knott's Berry Farm and pulled into the parking lot and pulled through the parking lot and pulled out of the parking lot and pulled to the other street bordering Knott's Berry Farm and pulled around the block and pulled past ten full parking lots and pulled our hair out and pulled back onto the interstate for a 45 minute trip back home.

No more will I go to an event that requires 2 hours to go 30 miles. No more will I bother with anything that is going to attract more than 5,000 people (unless it's a sporting event, an outdoor event, or something that has public transportation that will drop me off in front). No more am I going to kid myself that I don't mind crowds and that spending 80% of my time in lines is worth riding a roller coaster in the dark. The fun-o-meter will no longer fall for fake fun.