Matterhorn

They’ve changed the Matterhorn.

No, I’m not talking about the one in the Alps.  I’m speaking of the more famous one, the one in Disneyland.

There’s a good chance you might not notice, even if you are old enough to remember.  The mountain still dominates the skyline of the park.  Bobsleds still race through it, jostling and jarring passengers.  Riders are still startled by sudden appearances of the "Abdominal" Snowman, named for his envy-inducing six-pack. 

But the bobsleds themselves are not the same.  Each passenger gets his or her own seat.  It used to be, back in the olden days, you would straddle a bench.   The person in the rear of the sled had a backrest to lean on, but another rider sharing the cart had to nestle themselves between the rear passenger’s knees. There used to be signage that encouraged larger riders to sit in back, because the forces of acceleration and gravity would drive the forward rider snugly against the body of the rear rider.  This was a serious problem if, say, you were placed on the ride with a stranger who prioritized getting into the park early over showering.

On the other hand, it was an excellent ride if you were sharing the Disney experience with someone you didn’t mind getting close to.  This was the situation I found myself in a little over twenty-five years ago.  She wore no make-up, but she was so beautiful, with her gorgeous green eyes shining and her brown hair falling in loose curls.  As we strolled from ride to ride, she would smile or laugh with her pretty little mouth, and my heart would skip a beat.  There were half-a-dozen reasons I could never pursue a relationship with her, not the least of which being that I didn’t know if she even liked me. 

But then we rode the Matterhorn.

I sat in the back, and she sat in front.  The bobsled clickety-clacked up the first incline and gravity pressed her against my chest.  Her hair smelled sweet.  We plunged downhill and then up again, laughing and whooping, the wind bringing tears to our eyes.  We screamed when the Abominable Snowman leapt out at us, and then we laughed again.  Suddenly, it was over.  The bobsled came back to where we’d begun and shuddered to a halt. 

It was then that she did it. 

She reached her right hand across her body, gently gripped my left forearm, and squeezed.

It was twenty-five years ago, but any time I want I can relive that moment as if it happened yesterday; my heart racing, the thrill crackling through my soul like a Midwestern electrical storm.  And I also remember the sudden feeling of dismay when the Half-a-Dozen Reasons reminded me of their presence, frowning down at me like angry giants.

But hope still flickered.  There weren’t a half-a-dozen reasons.  There now was one less.

I knew.