When I got to my car the other day and started the engine—raring to head home after an uber-stressful day during which I blew my top, and which left me with a splitting headache and an annoying twitch over my right eye—I realized my parking card wasn't in my wallet, where I usually stick it.
I emptied out my wallet, emptied out my bag, emptied out my pockets, emptied out my trash, and searched every compartment and corner of my car—TWICE—and still I couldn’t find it. Just when I thought my day couldn’t get any worse.
When I came to terms that the card was gone, I went to the guard and reported my loss, prepared to pay the fine and be on my way.
But it turned out it wasn't going to be that easy. Naku, he said, as part of the new process, apart from paying the “lost card fee”, I would now have to go to the police station and fill out a report.
OMFG. Kill me now.
One of the car wash boys--the ones whose help finding parking slots you accept, but whose offer to wash your car you decline--was standing nearby. He had been standing there for some time, watching me turn my car inside out, and I had been doing my best not to get annoyed.
But at this point, he muttered to the guard that a card had been found on the ground near my car hours earlier.
The guard radioed one of his buddies, and within minutes, the card was returned to me. No payment, no police blotter.
I thanked the guard, thanked his buddy, especially thanked the car wash guy (not without a lot of embarrassment); and I heaved a huge sigh, and mouthed a brief prayer with eyes skyward: You’ve got one crazy sense of humor, God. Gotta love you.
And next time things get too serious, or too intense -- I'll be sure to revisit this post. :p
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