cos I’m jaebea

I admit that I’ve been very successful at collecting parking tickets during my life without any real effort to do so. I often wish that my talent in acquiring infringement notices would seep into other, more rewarding aspects of life such as work or with women.

Last night, I picked up a tab for $189, care of the NSW government, for my inexplicable desire to park in a special event clearway. There’s a feeling in your gut, one of despair yet tinged with hope, when you’re walking back towards your car and you start to notice the yellow envelopes with rolled pieces of heat printed paper jammed up underneath the windscreen wipers of other parked cars as you pass.

Step by step, car by car, every single car has been tagged. You dare not look up to where your car is, as most drivers in Sydney have a highly attuned, almost hypochondriatic, sensitivity to yellow and white pieces of paper on their windscreens. At 500 metres, we think that we may have a chance, but there COULD be something there. Maybe. Maybe not. We’re not sure.

We squint. We swerve on the footpath, trying to get a better angle. We walk on our tiptoes to peek over the cars between us and our own vehicle. All in the vain hope that we have been spared the ruination to our wallets. We even hope that we’ve done something right to have the safety vested Angels of Death pass by our vehicle. I’m pretty sure I didn’t have lambs blood on my tirewall but I could only hope.

Then the inevitable glimpse, and it’s all over. You stand there, in front of your car with one hand holding your car keys and the other clutching a crumpled piece of yellow paper. You have the indignity of trying to decipher what the damage is. You swear. Loudly. Then you slump your shoulders, take the most pitiful walk of despair to your door, sit in the seat and just rest your head on the wheel for a moment before you pull out and think about going home and paying the damn thing.

Denial.

Anger.

Depression.

Acceptance.

$189.