Do you go to Disneyland too much? These are the signs:
You see a long line at the store and start looking for a FASTPASS machine.
You think other parking structures have inferior designators. “What’s level three? I parked on Donald!”
You know how to tell people to stand clear of the doors in multiple languages.
You are a little wary of any and all elevators.
While in a car, you move your arms to prove to your mom that you have properly secured your seat belt.
You also put your arms up when going down any steep hill.
You make shoe purchase decisions based on whether they would be good for the Park.
If you see someone wearing jewelry you like, you wonder if they’d like to trade.
You expect to find a trash can every 30 paces.
You find it odd when service employees aren’t wearing jaunty, themed outfits.
When you see a pretty view, you look for someone to take your PhotoPass picture.
You expect every line to give you a standby wait time estimate.
You attempt to board a train, trolley, horse-drawn carriage, or boat without a ticket.
You feel like magical music should be playing at all times. Period.
You boil real-life places down to the land they’d belong in. Tokyo? Tomorrowland. Yosemite? Frontierland. Or Critter Country. Hmm…
At 9:30 pm every night, you look to the sky for fireworks.
You expect the Dapper Dans to show up while you’re taking a stroll in the neighborhood.
You start adding “Have a magical day” to the end of mundane interactions.
You search your local frozen foods section for Frozen Lemonade and Mickey-shaped ice cream bars.
You’ve tried to recreate a character topiary in your garden.
You start every car ride with an announcement asking that all passengers keep their hands, arms, and feet inside the vehicle for the duration of the journey.
You expect everyone to wear name tags so you can call them by their first name and identify their hometown.
You get worried about traffic at 3:30 because of the afternoon parade.
You pull on random ropes and doors expecting to hear a sound effect.
To you, every well is a wishing well.
You check your car for Hitchhiking Ghosts.
For the record, none of these are autobiographical. You believe us… right?
