The Problem is the Parking Stall

This morning I am living out another fantasy that I wasn’t sure existed until the moment when it happened.

I am typing lazily into my computer. I like the clicking of the keys over the chatter of the ladies beside me, the cooing of their babies and the hum of the espresso machine. There is a rhythm here and we are all playing along, swaying to the beat, contributing. Outside the day is offering a warmth I didn’t think possible at this juncture in time. The snow has melted and the leaves are resuming their place on center stage – flying like emancipated birds through the sweet fall air. People wait at stop lights. Cars drive by. Ah.

Peeking above my computer screen, I can’t help smiling at Shane. He is muttering out loud as he struggles with the morning crossword. Occasionally the little girl beside us stomps up and down on her pretty purple Mary Janes hoping they will light up, and our eyes meet to share a giggle. This is the rhythm of the morning. This is the fantasy. Is this my life?

Sunday we went to look at a beautiful condo downtown for curiosity’s sake. For a mere $500,000 we could have owned it. Not that we’re house shopping. I felt for a moment though like we were playing house. It was somewhere between the math of the mortgage payment and the realtor advising us the parking stall was an additional $15,000 that I woke up. My car is worth less than the stall to park it in!

Suddenly the absurdity of this tiny place having the capacity to bankrupt me sunk in. People do this! People buy houses they cannot afford with $15,000 parking stalls! I was embarrassed to discover that my monthly salary would not be sufficient to meet the outrageous mortgage payments on the condo. And that’s before property taxes and condo fees. Not to mention the upgraded car in order to feel worthy of the stall in which to park, flanked by Cadillacs and Hummers.

Add to that the expense of new furniture (pay now or later!) worthy of the expensive hardwood on which it will rest, under chandeliers and the twinkling lights of the downtown streets. Before long I’m wondering what kind of wardrobe a person would need in order to leave a building like that? And what dishware to serve food to guests who visit? Could you really buy NoName hand soap for the bathroom with granite countertops?!

Exhaustion settles quickly into the place where the initial attraction to such luxury first grew. I’m too tired to pretend to be rich. I’m too tired for a mortgage. I’d have to work more. When could I play my guitar?

I look up again from my furious typing and wonder what kind of a life I envision for myself. Coffee. Crosswords. Perhaps a new pair of light-up shoes. Or just enough kids around to enjoy theirs.

Pretty much I’m already living my fantasy life. I just need to remember to notice it.