Never underestimate the curative powers of alcohol.
For the third time in about a week, I’ve bowed outta my evening plans.
One reason. Always the same reason.
In words, Parking Purgatory.
Happened again last night.
There was an evening event yesterday. Recognized the probable tradeoff — of no parking spots when I got home.
I went because I really wanted to attend. At such cost.
Sure enough, I got back early (for me).
At 9 p.m. On a Wednesday.
Up and down and round and round every street I went.
TO NO AVAIL. WHATSOEVER.
Once again, yet again, I was forced to park at some other subdivision, sprint across 6 lanes of speeding traffic — potentially deadly day or night — and walk 1/3 of a mile home.
Only I didn’t walk. I MARCHED. FAST. I was ON FIRE. INFURIATED. Smoke pouring out my ears. Surprised no one reported a house fire!
Because this has been going on since I moved in 1-1/2 months ago and I am at the end of my rope and patience.
I’ve observed that on a particularly bad night — like when I cut an evening many hours short to improve the odds of finding a parking spot yet FINDING NOTHING — forcing me to park in some strange complex far away — recovery takes two nights.
Meaning I won’t drive anywhere come hell or high water if it means returning to Parking Purgatory after 6 p.m., when availability fast dwindles then vanishes.
Which is why I bowed out of tonight’s much-anticipated writing group — my first visit to boot. ARRRRGH. Sad.
Because I’d get back around 9:30 p.m.
The Parking Dead Zone.
Truly, as much as I want(ed) to go — and I do — it’s NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT worth the rage, stress, frustration, yet another reminder of the utter stupidity of the city and La Aldea planners that slaps me in the face every time I (fight to) park.
So yet another social event bites the dust. The Parking Purgatory is shifting into high gear the longer I reside here.
Hence it bears repeating: Do not underestimate the curative powers of alcohol.
Say cheers! to my curative cocktail.