Rollercoasters, that is.
C and I went to Busch Gardens in Williamsburg this past weekend. After a grueling 5 hour drive (it's supposed to be closer to 2) we swiftly located the closest Sonic and ate to our stomachs' delight. Fortunately, we were smart enough to drive down the day before so we didn't have to go straight to the park the same day. Saturday was the day o' fun to celebrate the mister's big 3-0. (Gotta be honest: I've been 30 for 10 months now and I don't feel it like I thought it would feel...)
Upon arrival, the Griffon coaster is looming in the distance, plunging folks to their (near) death. There was a brief period of time where I would have braved such a daring ride, but I now value my life, and my lunch. I'd like to keep them both where they should be, thank you very much. We opted for the Big Bad Wolf, a non-corkscrew, non-upside-down ride. We should have stuck with the carousel. After the short ride, my head was pounding from the jarring turns and drops, and he was about to puke. I should have known better...just riding the swings (sans Christian) made me dizzy and nauseous.
We're too old for this. The saddest realization of my thirties so far. Why are we going to Disneyworld for our honeymoon again?
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