The Fred Flintstone Fiasco

I was once kicked in the face by Fred Flintstone. Let me explain. It was a beautiful day. The kind of day where if you held a wish in your heart just long enough, it would most likely come true. At that moment in time, I was untouched by any problems of the world. I was three years old -and that day -just like every other day -was all mine.

For the first time in my fresh out the oven life, my parents were taking me to a theme park called Paramount Canada's Wonderland. I could barely contain my excitement towards what was potentially waiting for me inside! As we waited in line for entry, I sat patiently in my stroller humming and bobbling my head left to right. Soon enough, we entered the park.  

There were colors. Everywhere.

Smiles. Everywhere.

Cotton candy. Everywhere. 

This was kind of a big deal. I took mental note that I would seriously have to propose moving here to my father upon our return home. But now was not the time for household matters. 

Suddenly, a large figure caught my eye.

It was Fred Flintstone. I could barely contain myself. I had been following his career for as long as I could remember! And here I was -mere meters away from a celebrity.

Perhaps it was the intoxicating scent of cotton candy filling my nasal passageways, or perhaps it was my inexperience as a human being, but in that moment, a force beyond my control took over my tiny body.

In one swift leap, I escaped my stroller and began to run towards Fred Flintstone. I didn't know quite where I was going or what I was looking to achieve on this journey, but at that point in my life, logic wasn't a driving force when it came to my decision making -so I kept running. 

"FLINTSTONE! FRED!" I yelled, choking on my own words.

I had to touch him. I had to get closer.

With his back facing me, Fred was entertaining his surroundings by kicking his giant legs in the air, in an attempt to perform his own rendition of the can-can.

Just as I was about to put my arms around him, I found myself descending back to the direction from which I came. Fred Flintstone had just kicked me in the face.

I lay there in a pool of confusion and betrayal. My vision was blurred by my own tears and mucus. I screamed urgently for my mother and father to come rescue me. We left the park right after the incident and I vowed to myself that I would never return to this hell again.



But because my father had invested in season passes, we were back again the following weekend.

When we entered the park, nothing about it looked the same.

There were colors. Everywhere.

Smiles. Everywhere. 

Cotton candy. Everywhe---

Well, cotton candy was still great.

But...

...every time an over sized cartoon character came into my radar, I would burst into a hysterical fit.

My parents thought it was cute.



This fear stayed with me well into my youth. One summer when I was twelve, my parents took my best friend and I to Wonderland. It was the first time I had gone there with anyone outside of a trusted family member.

By that time, having a "people dressed in giant cartoon character costumes at Canada's Wonderland" phobia was no longer considered adorable, cute, or socially acceptable.

Over the years, I had found ways to enjoy my time at Wonderland by simply dodging these giant beasts. As long as I was able to avoid them during my time there, and engage in what the rest of the park had to offer, I was usually OK. I even grew to quite love the park.

Our day went on smoothly. We rode the roller coasters, played games, and ate funnel cake. Then, things took an unexpected turn. From my peripherals, I could sense one near.

 It was Yogi Bear. My friend had no knowledge of the Fred Flintstone fiasco of my past, and I intended on keeping it that way. She began to pull at my arm, dragging me in Yogi's direction, and demanding we get a picture taken with him. I was not mentally prepared to deal with the extremity of the situation. I had to think fast. I insisted that taking pictures with people dressed as giant cartoon characters was for babies, but she proceeded in her selfish ways, and pulled me with her.

At that point, I had two options:

Cry and run.

or

Take a damn picture with Yogi Bear.

Since the acceptance and validation of my peers was essential to my identity at this point in my life, I decided to chose option two.

As I approached Yogi, everything began to appear in slow motion. Was I really capable of doing this? Surely in my twelve years I should have found the time to get over something as petty as panicking in the presence of a person dressed up as a giant cartoon character. I mean, I almost had boobs now. That had to mean something, right?

I was now mere milometers away from Yogi. My heart was hammering out of my chest. Just as I was about to call the whole thing off, I had a thought:

"If I don't get over this now, when will I ever? I don't think my adult self would appreciate the burden of this fear in the future."

So, I decided in that moment, to let go of my past, and take the damn picture. And you know what? It felt kind of nice.

In that moment I felt in control of myself. I was now a woman with partial boobs, and I was ready to face the world.

In life, there will always be fear.

It is only when we make the conscious decision to forgive our past, take risks, and move forward will the real growing up begin.

Have a nice day.

xo Mel