Life in the Fast Lane

Last weekend at Cedar Point, Steve and I splurged to become part of the 1 percent of amusement park-goers. We bought fast lane passes and bypassed the hoi polloi waiting in interminable lines for the roller coasters.

Instead of waiting up to two hours for rides, we were able to breeze in, laughing a carefree laugh as we traipsed through the much shorter lines, going almost to the front. It warmed the cockles of our overprivileged hearts to look down on the ants below us, snaking through the mazes to wait to get on Valravn or Millennium Force. Please congratulate us for our good fortune.

Let me tell you, waiting is so bourgeois. Why do it when you can pay not to? I certainly never relished my time with the commoners during previous park visits, surrounded by coarse talk of their workaday lives as ditch-diggers. Last weekend, Steve and I were able to wait with our fellow aristocrats, discussing the finer things in life, such as stock tips and proper private jet maintenance. We were sipping champagne as we waited while below in the depths, the smell of domestic beer wafted up from the riff raff.

This is not to say we were not magnanimous in our privilege. I waited humbly and spared a kind smile at the lower castes as the employees integrated their rag-clad masses with our cashmere privilege. I had thought of throwing money down on the unwashed like some kind of robber baron, or at least offering them some cake, but I realized that it serves no one to act like a boor in our victory.

After all, crammed into those plastic and steel cars, were we not all the same, at least for a few fleeting moments?