Prelude To The Parking Chronicles

 Parking is a weighty issue for me.                                                                                                                                                  

While the rest of the civilized world reaches for its goals, pursues its passions and gets its laundry done, I’m looping infinitely around my block in search of somewhere to leave my car.

There are days I manage to rally. Others, I’m bled of hope, faith, compassion, and the energy to floss.

You, gentle reader, are to bear witness to my pain.

I’d start with the fact that handicapped spots devour half my neighborhood, but that would make it seem like I hate handicapped people. I don’t. And even if I did, I’d keep it under wraps 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. 

Family and friends say there’s no need; I’m already handicapped. I’m not sure what they mean.

They refuse to explain.

Anyway. . .I live on a street where 67% of the residents have handicapped parking stickers. The rest of us vie for the few remaining spots within two blocks of our apartment building. Additionally, our building is on a steep hill, there are stairs approaching it, 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, would I? 

I may not have enough storage space, but damnit, my apartment is cute as hell. 

And so I loop around the block, wishing I was home. 

And loop.

And loop.

In the parking world, it’s amazing how quickly adorableness gives way to ugliness and guile.