I think by now in the lifetime of this column, anyone who reads regularly knows that being me comes with a series of insurmountable issues and problems. One that I have yet to address is my complete and utter lack of ability to remember where the hell I’ve parked my car after returning from whatever daunting task required me to leave the comfort of my apartment.
Now, I’ve come to a point in my life where I’ve basically given up on changing anything about myself. At nearly 20 years old, I’ve accepted the fact there are nuisances in my persona that I will simply have to deal with for the next 80 years.
One of the ways that I’ve learned to cope with being me is to allow myself extra time in between engagements for wandering around the parking lot or garage in an attempt to find my car.
Well, my friends, this technique failed me Monday night.
I ventured to Shakespeare’s downtown for a meeting over pizza with an unnamed campus organization. Because parking anywhere on Ninth Street is generally a nightmare, I left my car in the University Avenue Garage.
Now, it is important to mention here that parking garages are one of my greatest weaknesses. If I were Superman, they would be my Kryptonite. If I were Batman, they would be bankruptcy. Every row on every floor looks exactly the same with no sort of landmarks or distinguishable features. One would imagine that a grown adult would have them figured out by now, but Abbey Fisher is no ordinary grown adult.
Where was I? Ah, yes, I parked my car in University Ave. Garage and happily skipped over to Ninth to stuff my face with pizza and talk about a service project. After the hour had passed, I left the building only to find that the sun had lowered reasonably, leaving me to find my car in the dark. No big deal, I thought to myself, I’ve been downtown hundreds of times.
And so I walked. I walked up Ninth Street toward campus, I walked along University Avenue and I walked right into the parking garage. And then I kept walking. My precious green Jetta was nowhere to be found.
After thoroughly exploring the first level, I ventured to the second — maybe I had parked up a level without realizing? When Level Two presented a solid zero green Volkswagens, I knew the only way to find my car was to use advanced modern technology. So I tweeted about it.
You know that show "Who the Bleep Did I Marry?" I'm going to write one called "Where the Bleep Did I Park?"— Abbey Fisher (@abbelyn_) October 22, 2013
Seven seasons of me wandering through a parking garage— Abbey Fisher (@abbelyn_) October 22, 2013
Level Three of the garage provided the same results as Level Two. I became frantic, now texting my boyfriend along with tweeting. After 20 minutes, I even lifted my hands in prayer for a brief moment, calling upon the ghost of Steve Jobs to save me.
"Mom, I lost my car." "But it's a 2-ton hunk of steel" this'll be a fun call home— Abbey Fisher (@abbelyn_) October 22, 2013
And then, suddenly, the answer came to me as a gift wrapped in the pixels of a text message: Did you park somewhere else? I opened my Apple Maps application and touched the little arrow that signified my location. I dropped a pin, and this is what message I was presented with: Hitt Street Garage.
The only way I can express my emotions at the time would be to present you with my final tweet of the night:
I was in the wrong parking garage the whole time. ABIGAIL, YOU BAG OF SHIT YOU'VE DONE IT AGAIN— Abbey Fisher (@abbelyn_) October 22, 2013