My wife, Bev, has a talent for finding the most creatively inconvenient parking spots. Last Tuesday, it was a tiny space wedged between a delivery truck and a dumpster, so narrow I swear I saw the car’s paint job shudder. “Honey,” she chirped, beaming, “Look! Perfect!” I just sighed. Perfect for a parking ticket, maybe.
Getting out required a series of contortions that would have made a yoga instructor jealous. I felt like a particularly awkward octopus escaping a jar. Finally, free, I straightened up, dusted myself off, and prepared to face the inevitable. There it was, nestled under the wiper blade, a cheerful little piece of paper flaunting the city’s finest.
“Bev,” I said, holding up the ticket, trying to maintain a calm demeanor, “we have a problem.”
She peered out the window, eyes narrowed in concentration. “What’s wrong, dear? Did someone scratch my car?”
I pointed to the ticket. “This is a parking ticket, love. And it’s for parking in a loading zone.”
She gasped dramatically. “Oh my goodness! I didn’t see the sign! It was camouflaged! Completely blended in with the graffiti!” She then added, with a mischievous glint in her eye, “Besides, it says ‘No Loading Zone’. I wasn’t *loading* anything. I was *unloading* my worries and anxieties from the stressful day. I think they should give me a discount.”
I stared at her, speechless. Just then, a city worker ambled past, whistling. He looked at Bev’s car, then back at the ticket in my hand. He burst into laughter. “Madam,” he wheezed, “I’ve seen a lot of excuses in my time, but ‘unloading anxieties’…that’s a new one!” He then added, still chuckling, “And by the way, that’s a ‘No Parking’ sign. The ‘Loading Zone’ sign was next to the one advertising the demolition derby down the street.”
