You see, normal people can deal with that requirement. But I certainly don’t claim to be normal.
I don’t like anything about cities. This chick prefers dirt roads, cabins and a one-stop-sign type of life.
Like it or not, I was forced out of my fantasy and right into rush-hour traffic.
Sure, I experienced heart palpitations while trying to survive the 500-mile racetrack (also known as the interstate.)
When I entered the dreaded parking garage, anxiety bubbled like hot lava in my throat.
When I l finished that first day I soon had to face the facts.
My worst nightmare had come true. My car was lost somewhere in that awful dungeon. But to be honest, I wasn’t particularly shocked about it.
By this time in life we all know what we can and can’t do. Right? Something I can’t do is anything related to a city.
“Excuse me,” I approached a worldly young woman who immediately oozed irritation. “I have misplaced my car. Do you have any tips for how I might find it?”
“Did you park it here?” she asked.
“No, I parked it in the bathroom,” I thought but did not say.
“Do you know which entrance you used?”
There’s actually more than one entrance to the parking garage?
Sweat did a slow but steady waterfall down my back.
I shook my head no. Embarrassment now burned my cheeks.
“Do you know which floor?” Miss Snot Head stared at me. Her eyes flashed, “Moron!” in my direction.
“Do you know that when you are my age your hind end will be as wide as mine?” I thought but didn’t say. “How do you like those apples, you skinny little sister of Satan?”
Hoping that Miss Congeniality would offer to actually help me, the old lady who lost her car, I stared at her with tear-filled eyes. Because she obviously had no heart, the little darling of designer wear simply turned and left me to die alone in the concrete maze.
So I returned to my long, tearful walk.
Suddenly, an idea popped into my head. Maybe if I sounded my car alarm. …
Yes! I heard it!
My car was actually closer than I thought.
If I could hear the alarm sounding then surely I could find it before midnight.
Well guess what? I finally walked enough to spot the flashing tail lights through the concrete slabs.
Guess what else?
By the way, I promise this is absolutely true.
I could hear my car and see my car. … But I could not get to it.
That’s right, boys and girls … when I hiked up a floor the car alarm was suddenly faint or it sounded like it was parked on a different floor.
By the time I found it I was bawling my face off. (Alright. Fine. I was bawling long before I finally found the dumb car)
The following day I lived the same nightmare. Yep. Lost it again.
Now I leave home long before any rooster rises to shine.
I do this because I am now a slave to the purgatory otherwise known as the parking garage.
I absolutely must leave my car in the exact same place, on the exact same floor near the exact same entrance.
More and more I wish for a little cabin.
In my fantasy my place of employment is located right across the dirt road, next to that lone stop sign.
Sherri Coner is an award-winning journalist and humor writer who speaks to women’s groups. To learn about her books for women and to join her on Facebook, visit www.sherriconer.com.