Row 7

 

You know that sinking feeling? The one where you emerge from a store, laden with bags (or, in my case, five sugar-fueled grandchildren), and you stare out at a sea of identical metal boxes, none of them yours? Yeah, that was my personal hell for years. My superpower, (one of them, at least), was forgetting where I parked the nanosecond I step away from my car.

The true turning point, was quite a few years ago when my grandchildren forever cemented my reputation as "Nana Who Loses the Car," happened at Walmart. Imagine: five small humans, each with their own unique brand of post-shopping fatigue and a desperate need to pee, nap or eat, wandering aimlessly with me through acres of asphalt. We looked like a lost expedition, complete with complaints echoing off the distant fluorescent lights. "Nana, is it that one? No, that's not our white one!" "Are we ever going to find it?" The shame, people, the sheer, unadulterated shame. We eventually located my humble Jeep Cherokee, but the damage was done.

I knew I needed a plan. Something foolproof. Something that would prevent future generations from inheriting my parking amnesia. And then, like a beacon in a fog-bound parking lot, it hit me: Row 7, (it’s actually where we had parked).

Now, you might think, "Why row 7? Why not row one, or ten, or forty-two?" And to that, I say: because it's typically in the center. It’s supposed to be a lucky number. It’s not too close to the entrance, where everyone else is battling for spots, and it’s not so far that I need to pack a survival kit. And, like I said, it’s where we had actually parked!

So now, whether I’m at Walmart, Winn Dixie, Target, the mall, my car finds its spiritual home on Row 7. I’ve developed a sixth sense for it. I used to be the one that would drive entire circles around the parking lot to try to find something close, but now I bypass perfectly good spots on other rows, to circle endlessly around my designated numerical row in order to find my slanted, rectangular painted destiny. Sometimes it takes a minute or two to find that coveted spot, but the peace of mind? Priceless.

It's not glamorous. It's not high-tech. But it's my system, and it works. And now, I never have to face the parking lot panic attack again. Best of all, my grandchildren also know without a doubt, where I parked the car. 

Unless, of course, they ever decide to renumber the rows. 

Now, if I could just come up with a system to help me remember what I went to the kitchen for!