Magic

Disneyland, and the dreams that came true

In the summer of 2006, I got my first post-college job (Los Angeles Times) and moved (again) out of state. I moved in with my grandma, whom I’d always been close to. It was always supposed to be temporary, but her state of health and my state of mind were about to clash in profound ways, a season of grace and mistakes that maybe I’ll write about another time.

I was young, ambitious and lonely. I worked in a cubicle with a very L.A. cast of characters (two of the women with whom I shared office space were in lawsuits with their boob-job doctors, no kidding) and I existed in a weird cocktail of bored, overwhelmed and scared stiff. Half my job was mind-numbingly dumb (an ideal fit for A.I.) and the other half made my voice crack with nerves.

I was three months away from making new, lifelong friends, nine months away from falling in love with the man who would become my husband, but of course I didn’t know that at the time. The L.A. Times was going bankrupt and I was going crazy, teeterin…