After 48 years of marriage, I am entitled to draw a few conclusions about the man to whom I pledged fidelity. I conclude he is never satisfied with anything, including me, once obtained. More specifically of late, any parking place in his sites. Moses had easier time in the desert than Husband lost in the parking selection process.
I have come to expect it now: the slow-rolling, almost-stopping, last minute fickle rejection of one slot after another in an almost empty lot for the promise of some elusive, Shangri-La auto pedestal of perfection. Makes me wonder how much arduous consideration will be required for our burial plots, which we had better see to soon.
If they gave out awards for discriminating parking, Husband would have no competition. The trouble is, I cannot follow his reasoning, and so I am at once surprised and perplexed when we finally arrive at his chosen place. For instead of being closer to the entrance, sometimes we are farther away. If asked, Husband will offer that a small tree offered shade or shelter from the North, or that there is a blind spot in the black ops surveillance, and institutional spy cams, or something else I failed to appreciate.
I have learned the path of least resistance serves me better than questions begging to lay blame on his compulsive ritual. Whenever I feel my mouth engaging, I go to default: The 50's on XM Radio, where I am perennially 16 and full of feelings. It is a great place where Fat's Domino is "Walking," Elvis says "Love Me," and Bobby Rydell calls me "Wild Thing." In the words of the Big Bopper, "Oh Baby, You Know What I Like!"