I figured out the secret.  Crutches.

It’s about time they were useful.  One sprained ankle seven years ago, and since then, they’ve done nothing but take up closet space. 

It should’ve been obvious.  How many times had I seen grandparents getting pushed through Frontierland, mouse-eared balloons tied to their wheelchairs’ handles?  Tourists consistently opened wide berths for their chairs to pass through, and handicapped (if I’m still allowed to say that) lanes offered them access to the front of any line they rolled into.

I wrapped my ankle in an ACE bandage and broke out the crutches, hobbling my way to the front gate.  Wheelchair rentals ran an extra twelve bucks for the day, but after shelling out two hundred for general admission tickets for four, that was a small afterthought.

It’s hard (and probably cruel) to describe the looks on the faces of waiting people as we – as my family got to “escort” their friend in dire need of help – rode two, three, four times on a roller coaster as they inched to the front of the line. 

Best twelve bucks I’ve ever spent.