If there were ever any doubt that I need to get a life – stat – the fact that I’m daydreaming about our spring vacation five months out should set me straight.

I actually think there’s something wrong with me that I love Disney this much. But I just do. Once, years before the Wee Lass was even a glimmer on the horizon – and I’d even met The Man Who Would Be Hubby – my sister and I parked ourselves there for an entire week.

And, oh, it got weird. Like when one of the guys dressed like Chip, or Dale, (I get them confused, but they’re chipmunks) took it upon himself to try to get frisky with me during breakfast in The Land at Epcot.

Rude, right? I thought so. Just because I don’t have a tot in tow doesn’t mean I want you to get all handsy on me. Sheesh. The noive.

Flashforward a decade-plus and my trips to Orlando are utterly G-rated. Hubby and I have come up with a slightly arbitrary plan that we’ll take the Wee Lass when she’s 4, 6 and 8. And then she’ll be “over” it, the way she’s already dismissed with so many childhood pleasures. (Except for two sleep-related biggies: Sucking her thumb and clinging to her threadbare “night-night.“)

Since we’re already embarking on the second of our three planned extravaganzas (sniff sniff sob sob), we’re going all out in April and camping out at the Grand Floridian.

I’ve been lucky enough to have stayed at some stunning hotels in my life, including Le Meurice in Paris (the be-all and end-all) and a number of really gorge Ritz-Carlton properties (Key Biscayne and Laguna Niguel are off the hook).

But there’s just something about this crisp white mega-resort that’s really beckoning to me. Maybe it’s all that crispy whiteness. Even the manufactured beach encircling it looks crispy white.

Until five minutes ago, I was even thinking of visiting the on-site spa while I’m there. But evidently it’s “under refurbishment” until 2013 (that’s a lot of refurbishment), and if I’m hankering for a Disney-fied facial or body scrub, I’ll need to visit the spa at the Saratoga Springs property.

I guess I can handle that. As long as I can hightail it right back to all the crispy whiteness for a post-spa siesta.

OMG, just thinking about all this is mentally taking me to my Happiest Place On Earth. Counting. The. Seconds.