Friday, October 1, 2010

Dude, where's my car?


This is what happens when you mix menopause + general forgetfulness + mild anxiety, add a dash of "sick kid at home" and a splash of being overworked.... voila! My own personal recipe for WTF GUMBO.

In the last year, I have had two occasions of mild anxiety attacks related to parking garages and not being able to find my car. I'll spare you the ridiculous details, but the end result is my new OCD ritual that I go through to remember where my car is parked. It's been effective (rock on, OCD!) but last week I botched up my routine by leaving the parking garage, going out to lunch with a friend (in the car with me) and then being all chatty and "normal" when we returned from lunch and FORGETTING that I am crazy and SKIPPING my parking routine.

I went back to the job after lunch, and at 5 pm headed to the parking garage, where I was full of confidence and bliss knowing that my car was safely parked on the 11th floor, right where I had left it when I got there at 9:00 a.m. La la la la la, happily going up the elevator, not a care in the world until the doors opened on the 11th floor and it hit me, I MOVED MY CAR AT LUNCH and I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE IT IS.

No. Idea. Not an inkling, not a clue, not a wisp of a memory as to which of the 15 floors of this parking garage it might be parked on. Zip. Zilch. Zero. Nada. NO FUCKING IDEA. At. All.

I get out of the elevator and stand on the 11th floor for a few minutes, trying to think of my best plan of action. I park in this particular garage maybe 3-4 times a month and one thing that is unique about it is that the odd numbered floors are laid out quite differently from the even numbered floors. As I am standing on 11, everything is very familiar and the first little spark of recognition is lit: I'M PARKED ON AN ODD NUMBERED FLOOR. This is very helpful information to have.

I get back in the elevator, head down to the 9th floor. Do a lap around the floor, no car.

I get back in the elevator, head down to the 7th floor. Do a lap around the floor, no car.

I get back in the elevator, head down to the 5th floor. Do a lap around the floor, no car.

At this point, I'm starting to worry because the chances of being on the 3rd floor are slim. The 1st-4th floors are always full. I never park on those floors. So my plan is do a quick circuit of the third floor, then start to work my way back up the odd numbered floors again. Maybe I walked right past my car! At this point, anything is possible.

As I am prone to do when I'm starting to freak out, I stop paying attention to the crap going on around me, and I get in an elevator that is actually going UP instead of DOWN. Awesome. I do not have time for this shit, so I go up one floor to the 6th floor, where I will get out of the elevator and get in a different one that is actually going down.

The elevator doors open on the 6th floor and there's my car, the first car right in front of the elevator.

Welcome to my world.

5 comments:

Keetha said...

Did you go home and have a big glass of wine?

I hope so, and that you propped your feet up. Weren't you tired from all that walking around the parking garage?

I'm glad I'm not the only one who does things like this.

Tiffany said...

You weren't by any chance carrying a plastic bag with a goldfish in it, were you?

Cheri @ Blog This Mom!® said...

IF, hypothetically speaking, a person used to drive an SUV with an automatic rear hatch lift, that would have been a way to find said car in a parking lot. A person could just hit the button on the key fob and look across the parking lot for the opened rear hatch. If. Hypothetically.

But IF, hypothetically speaking, a person were to now drive a stupid SUV that does not have an automatic rear hatch lift, then purposefully setting off the car alarm MIGHT be a way to find the car in the parking lot. If. Hypothetically.

Lori Dyan said...

I once had to get mall security to drive me and my daughter around in their geekmobile in a blizzard because I couldn't find my car. I did not have menopause or a sick kid at home. I call is dummy mummy syndrome and the best cure seems to be a glass of pinot grigio...

the mama bird diaries said...

OMG - you poor girl. I thought you were walking home.