I'm the kind of guy who likes to have a plan. Life is comfy when you're able to settle into a rhythm. More order means fewer surprises, and I like that. I have for as long as I can remember.
Back in sixth grade, my family began planning the holy grail of family vacations: Disney World. Fuck yes. In my 11-year-old mind, this vacation became priority numero uno before it even happened. As soon as plans became final, I peed a little then forced my mom to drive me to Barnes and Noble to buy a travel book. I needed to make good use of it the four months before we left.
While most kids prepare for this rite of passage by watching ""The Little Mermaid"" or ""Dumbo"" (…ok, maybe not ""Dumbo""), I was flipping through this guidebook like a madman, examining maps and reading about Mickey's 38 exclusive appearances throughout the day. At the time, I couldn't possibly imagine a travesty worse than missing out on Space Mountain or any other incredible attraction, so I made minute-by-minute itineraries for everyday.
I was a planning fiend. I didn't think for a second that the rest of my family might not be ready for their vacation to turn into a rigid, boot camp-like sprint around the happiest place on earth.
Much to my extreme disappointment (bordering on devastation) my family resisted my constant nagging when the trip finally came.
""Splash Mountain again? But the schedule! We'll never make it to the Hall of Presidents in time!
""If I don't see a robot version of Abraham Lincoln give the Gettysburg Address, I am literally going to die,"" I whined.
I knew I shouldn't have felt that much anxiety, but with months spent envisioning the perfect trip, my young self had incredibly high, albeit unrealistic, expectations. Hindsight is 20/20, I guess.
My obsession with planning extended to situations where I had absolutely no business doing so. I mistook personal hopes for concrete plans. I would ask to stop for ice cream on the way home from the store, and when my mom said ""maybe,"" I took this as ""sure, feel free to get your hopes up; we probably will. You're my weirdly anal son, so you deserve it. Feel free to let your mind dwell on it for the next 30 minutes so you can flip shit internally if we don't.""
This was by no means an isolated incident, but throughout the rest of middle and high school I learned to go easy on the hype of planning as to avoid the habitual soul-crushing disappointment that inevitably followed most of my life's would-be exciting events.
Don't get me wrong I still plan my vacations to the hour and make to-do lists in my sleep, but I guess I'm a little less likely to develop a stress rash if not everything goes the way I want. That's progress, right? Ok, so maybe I haven't improved at all, but I'm planning on it. Which mean it's probably going to happen.
Want to schedule a vacation to Disney World with Elliot this fall season so you can ditch out on midterms? E-mail him at ejmorris2@wisc.edu and get a head start on your minute-by-minute itinerary.
