Park and Pay and Pay and Pay

A week ago I delivered W to the airport at five o’clock in the morning.  In retrospect, that’s not seeming  nearly as insane as going to pick him up yesterday during rush hour.  His flight was due in at 5:25 p.m. so I left work just before that, figuring if I could get to the airport in half an hour, that’s about how long it would take him to get off the plane and claim his luggage, and he could just walk outside and there I’d be!  Great plan, hey? And the funny thing is, it actually kind of worked out that way.  So NOW what am I supposed whine about?  Well, there’s always something, isn’t there.   

I drove into the pull in/pick up/pull out area which used to be a nice little strip of parking meters and spaces, but is now a long row of parking stalls with one huge meter for every five or six spots. I sent another text to say I’d arrived, and he sent back he was claiming his bags.  So I got out and put four dollars into the machine for ten minutes and it spewed out a little piece of paper that said I had to leave at 6:05.  Failure to vacate the space before the alloted time meant that I would have to put in another four dollars for every 90 seconds I chose to stubbornly remain there.  Maybe it was five minute intervals.  Something ridiculous.  The rate used to be four dollars for twenty minutes.  But the airport has expanded and everybody gets to pay even if they’re not going anywhere.  Anyway, W came strolling up the walkway at 6:04.  I thought we should win some kind of prize for synchronicity or something.  We pulled out of stall number 22 with seconds to spare.  Of course the adventure was only half over because we had to drive back to the city in amongst all the other maniacs with death wishes.  As you may have guessed, we’ve lived to see another day.  Cab fare is something exorbitant like an arm and a leg and your first born.  And the drive is no less crazy.

When we were close to the exits for home W suddenly decided he wanted to take the first one and drive by the shop to see if Kenny’s truck was there.  I did, and it was, and he had me drop him off.  Really?  You’re not even home yet, and you need to stop by work??  So I came home with a suitcase and no husband, after having risked my life to collect him. Never mind having been prepared to bankrupt myself at a parking meter.  Ungrateful bastard.  I have to keep reminding myself he’s really good with that snow blower.