Elderly Deserve Reserved Parking Spaces!

For the first time that I can remember, I found everything on my grocery list. They even had Bob's salad dressing which has been out of stock for months. The cashier didn't ring up anything incorrectly and every item had a tag, so no price checks were necessary. Other than being exhausting, the afternoon shopping trip proved successful. As I limped across the parking lot towards my car, I passed parking spaces for handicapped. I would never park there because my father-in-law was paraplegic. Those spots are extra-large to accommodate a wheelchair or walker. I have never understood why they need six, but one never knows how many are so better safe than sorry.

Just beyond the handicapped spaces are two slots for veterans. It is a sin - literally - to slight a veteran who gave so much for our country. Since this is Memorial Day Weekend, I am even more aware of their sacrifice. They deserve to be honored.

Opposite these six spots are six more reserved parking spaces. Two for pregnant women. I imagine there are probably more of them in the store than handicapped. Most drivers who hop out of cars in the handicap spaces are walking better than I do, but one never knows their situation. Hum, now that I think of it there were no special parking spaces for me when I was pregnant, but it is a nice gesture. I also don't remember seeing spaces reserved for parents with small children when I was a mother of young children.

I look to my right to see half a row of parking spots blocked for people who have placed orders online and are going to pick them up. Some young employees will deliver their groceries to their car. I imagine those customers are mostly younger people because people my age avoid ordering groceries online. It would take longer to figure out the system than to just get out of the chair and go shopping. Besides, I am not so old I can't get my own groceries.

The row to my left hosts signs saving more sites for various situations. It seems a little disconcerting that there is such urgency for a security car. However, with knowledge of recent events, knowing help will be readily available offers comfort. The next space is for Employee of the Month, probably someone who really deserved the recognition. The next rows are narrow for motorcycles, scooters, and bicycles. Of course, reserved but nothing else would fit there anyways. Since my car is not a compact, I keep walking past the next half a dozen spaces in search of my Ford Explorer.

In the middle of the row, are several EV charging stations for electric cars. That would be convenient if I owned one of those because not only could I score a closer parking spot, but my car would get a full charge while I shop without the need of stopping at a gas station.

Less than 30% of all the reserved spaces are occupied and the next acre is packed as tight as sardines. As I walk out to the outer limits in search of my car, a young man dressed in a t-shirt crosses my path. In white letters on the black background, a slogan reads, "Pain is weakness leaving the body." What the hell does that mean?

At this point in my day my body is experiencing enough pain to make me take notice - and I still haven't found my car. If pain is weakness leaving my body, then I must be Superwoman. I have suffered enough mental and physical pain to last a lifetime. With every step, my back spasms, and my hips scream. I click the button on my key fob so my car will talk to me. A mild chirp tells me I have some distance yet to go before finding a seat to rest my bones.

As a lady in my 60's, my joints ache more than they once did. I visit a chiropractor and physical therapist weekly. They both recommend exercise, so I don't really need a parking spot closer to the front door. But in the back of my mind, I wonder if I will ever be important enough to have a reserved parking spot. I don't want one if the prerequisite is to be handicapped. And there is no way I am getting pregnant again. Wouldn't even if I could.

There was a time I would drive around in circles attempting to find a closer spot when shopping. Now, anything close to the front door has a sign announcing I can't park there because I don't have the correct qualifications. I begin to list strategies to solve this dilemma on the next shopping day: trade my beast in for a compact or electric car, buy a counterfeit handicap sticker - I hear they are available on the internet and who would know any different since I walk with a limp anyways. I mentally mark off the idea of riding a motorcycle to get groceries, reconsider bring the grandchildren because they might be more work than its worth, and getting a job so I can be employee of the month ain't happening. My best idea might be to stuff a pillow under my shirt but that would be suspicious with my grey hair.

I pull out my phone and realize, I've achieved half my daily steps just trying to find my car. With a click of my fob, a chirp signals my end goal sits a couple feet away. Thank goodness. Suddenly, an image of grocery shopping years ago flashes in my mind. Many people may not know or remember but once upon a time, somebody actually bagged the groceries, placed them in the shopping cart, accompanied the customer to the car and helped load the bags into the car. This blast from my past sends a warmth down my back, leaving me wishing for time long gone.