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.

Beam Me Up

Always liked the idea of beaming myself somewhere and skipping the wait at the airport or the long hours cooped up in a car. I know getting there is supposed to be half the fun, but sometimes it actually isn’t.

Wishing for something is one thing, having it as a real possibility is another thing entirely. Teleportation is a scary concept, so I’m sure I’ll be one of the skeptical people who holds back and waits to see how it goes for all those adventurous types before trying it out myself.

Chances are good that I’ll be a strong advocate for wormholes as a viable alternative, and a safer mode of transportation. Taking a speed-of-light shortcut through space and time while keeping the traveller intact has a certain appeal over being disassembled and put back together. Jumpgates, portals, stargates – could we please try those things first?

All in all, it sounds like a whole new way to lose your luggage, never mind the various molecules that might go missing en route to your destination. Missing fat molecules I could deal with, but the rest of my bits and pieces I’m not so sure I want to risk being without. Call me pathetically old-fashioned, but I’m kind of happy with my present continuity of existence.

I don’t want to arrive all messed up in some strange place being told to pull myself together and having no clue how to do that. So go ahead and beam yourself halfway across the planet, work out all the beaming kinks and hitches, and hopefully by the time teleportation is safely perfected I’ll be too damn old to care where I am or how I got there.

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