A shameful confession: Outside the office is a section of street where parking is allowed, and, although there is AMPLE free lot parking in the comically large suburban office lot behind the building, the street offers quick access to the building’s door. This makes it a delight for
me certain people who may be wearing unsensibly high heels and carrying way too much crap back-and-forth to the office.
It wasn’t too small. You could get a damn Econoline van in there.
After parking in a different, less awesomely-close spot, I realized this and it hit me :I am in danger of losing my parallel parking mojo.
FORSOOTH! Do not speak such vulgarity! (The English lit degree pops out every once in a while, I can’t stop it.)
I have long spent an inordinate amount of time ribbing The Mr. about his lack of parallel parking skills. He has used many excuses for why he can’t take various killer spots throughout our years together: his last Acura had “blind spots” that prevented it, the Jeep is “too big” and “the backup camera alarm is too sensitive,” and my personal favorite he “doesn’t see as well at night,” (HELLO, you are Driving Miss Keri here, pal – PRECIOUS CARGO – update your prescription, yo!!)
The point is, Keri can parallel park. I remember distinctly going with my mom and my dear lifelong girlfriend to go see a potential apartment in the city for soon-to-be-college-student-Keri a few weeks before high school graduation, and seeing a tiny spot on the crowded street. Too small, remarked my friend and I. OH NO – not for my mom who learned to drive in the city!! She wedged her little Sentra into a spot I didn’t think would fit a Vespa, and my friend and I gasped in awe.
I was hooked. I had to do that too.
So I did. NO NO – So I *DO*!!
There is no way in hell I am losing my ability to fit Frederico effortlessly into spaces that appear to be Yugo-sized. I can’t tell you the joy I feel in executing a perfect park right in front of a patio full of people at happy hour, when every dummy out there is just DYING for me to take out the bike rack beside me or jack up my hubcap. Forget it, suckers – not City Keri, not Reluctantly Suburban Keri, not even So-damn-old-they-repo’ed-my-licence-Keri. Never.
The shame of abandoning a bomb-diggity parking spot is NOT one I will accept as normal. Mamma’s not going out like that.
RAGE RAGE AGAINST THE DYING OF THE LIGHT! (English lit degree again. I am totes sure that Thomas would be down with me borrowing it to talk about my mad parking skillz. Yep.)
If you need me I’ll be setting up a makeshift parallel parking obstacle course with the trash bins in front of the house.