Because I live in the ghetto, and because I’m appallingly lazy, I chose to park on the west side of Harrison last night, meaning I’d have to get up before 6 and move my car. It seemed like a reasonable idea at the time, as I parked in the rain after a 14 hour day. I mean, I was in no mood to drive around for ages fighting with stolen hatchbacks for questionable spaces next to shanty towns. I was parking, no matter what time I had to rise and move dear Rhonda the Honda.
Needless to say, I was singing a different tune at 5:45am. Cursing all that’s holy, I stomped to my car in the pre-dawn drizzle, re-parked her in one of the dozen legal spaces on my block and crawled back in bed, freezing and wide awake.
When I was a little girl, I could dream myself back to sleep by tuning into my bizarre fantasy world. My most favorite fantasy, popular during the first Bush Administration, was that I was hired as the sixth New Kid on the Block. I could happily drift off to sleep with a smile on my face by the mere thought of being included in NKOTB’s pre-show prayer huddle. I’d really worked out this scenario: the emotional, high pressure auditions, the female fans slowly accepting me, the acknowledgment of my immense talent and sweet moves, the subtle backstage flirting with Joe McIntyre – I really had quite a plan for myself. Drifting off to sleep, it all seemed possible. If I wished for it hard enough, there’s no way I COULDN’T be the only girl member of New Kids.
Folks, I discovered that this doesn’t work so much for me anymore. This morning, curled up in a ball, cursing adulthood and shitty parking, I tried to imagine what kind of magical moment could transport me to the unconscious bliss the New Kids gave me. Other some kind of filthy scenario involving George Clooney and the rooftop of the Paris Ritz or the fabulous task of being a regular judge on Project Runway, I merely worried about my taxes. As I finally fell asleep, forcing myself to dream of Hugh Grant and I riding thoroughbreds around our rural English country manor in traditional equestrian apparel, I vowed to never park on the west side of Harrison Street on a Wednesday again.
And with that, the perfect fantasy popped into my head and I fell into a peaceful slumber:
A god damned parking space…