Parking is a weighty issue for me. Other people focus their energies on their children, homes, jobs. I spend my life looping around my block in search of a decent space, obsessing over the inevitable parking crisis that will befall me after dinner. And tomorrow. And the day after that. Because it will. It’s been proven more times than I can count.
You, gentle reader, are to bear witness to my pain.
I’d start with the fact that handicapped spots eat up half my neighborhood, but that would make me look like I hate handicapped people. I don’t; but if I did, I’d keep it to myself until my writing career was established and I could make it sound cute or chic. That said, I have wondered if I could improve my parking situation by lacerating a toe, ingesting strychnine or donating a kidney. I’d like to hope so, but friends and family are not supportive. They’ve commented, in vague terms, that I’m already handicapped. I’m not sure what they mean, and they refuse to explain.
I live on a steep hill where 87% of the residents are in vegetative, yet somehow vehicle-worthy, states. The rest of us vie for the few remaining spots within a block and a half of our building. Though I’m compelled to exclaim, “But…my apartment is so cute!” I must add that there are steps leading to my building, the front door lock requires special tricks of hand, and the elevator gate frightens the weak of bowel. Why, one must wonder, would a handicapped person choose to live here? Why, one might ask, do I?
As I said, my apartment is so cute!
In the parking world, it’s amazing how such adorableness can give way to such ugliness and guile.