The holidays are over. Most of us have already started blowing our New Year’s resolutions. We are firmly ensconced in the DEAD OF WINTER.
And for once, I’m not complaining about it.
Here in southwestern
winter has been kind. So far. It’s been mild. We’ve had rain instead of snow,
but not enough to cause flooding. Mud? I can live with a little mud. Yes, I
realize we have a couple of months to go, and Old Man Winter might slap us up
side the head any minute now. But last year the nasty stuff started the day
after Thanksgiving and continued until April. So every day of nice weather we
have is one less day of the wicked stuff. And one day closer to spring. Pennsylvania
But there’s one thing I like about winter no matter what the weather. The stores aren’t jam packed.
All right, there is that milk and toilet paper madness that hits whenever the forecast calls for more than a flurry of snow. But in general, it’s easier to shop this time of year.
I’ve come to the conclusion that it really isn’t the holiday craziness INSIDE the store that I dread so much. It’s the craziness in the parking lot.
I confess. I hate (loathe) parking lots. People lose all sense of humanity when they’re trying to get a good parking space. Or any parking space.
Yes, I seriously wish I had the nerve (and that big ol’ tank of a car) to do this. Don’t you?
But even once you’ve got the space, you still have major obstacles to overcome. One day, shortly before Christmas, two different drivers nearly backed over me while I walked from the far reaches of the lot to the store. Is it too much trouble to look behind you before ramming your car in reverse and pounding the gas? Seriously.
And then there’s my 91-year-old mom who walks with a cane and can’t jog across the pedestrian crossing. I have to act like a school crossing guard and stand there, daring these impatient idiots to hit me, so Mom can hobble into the store. I’ve been known to give “The Look” (Joyce, you know the one) to drivers who act like they’re going to mow us down. So far it’s worked. The day it doesn’t, I hope someone gets a license number. At the very least, I’ll be kicking the hell out of their car’s undercarriage as they drive over me.