Today I lost my car in a parking garage.
Usually when that happens (because, let’s be real, this is obviously not the first time), it’s because I, with my usual scintillating brilliance, forget to notate where exactly in the giant mass of cars I have parked my one particular car.
Probably because I am usually checking Instagram while walking away from my car and can not be bothered to look up because PICTURES AND STUFF!
But today? I notated. In fact, not only did I notate, but a witness ALSO notated.
3B. I was parked in 3B. I knew I was parked in 3B, but where was my car? It was nowhere, that’s where it was.
I wandered around the magical black hole of 3B in my (obviously ridiculous and uncomfortable) heels muttering sadly to myself and watching while about half a dozen other people did the same thing. Except that they all had little alarmy locatey thingys for their cars and all I had was Instagram. Which, to be honest, was not really doing it for me at that moment.
Finally, I gave up in despair and dragged my be-heeled feet down the stairs to the valet below, where I sat pitifully until someone noticed me. Then I told this person that I had “lost my car” which, apparently, is a thing. Because immediately he gave me the number for security.
I called the number and moments later a security VAN appeared (whatever happened to golf carts?). I hopped in and the little security lady drove me immediately to my car. Which was parked in 3B.
When I called to tell my husband about this incident, he did not think it was OMGFUNNY but he did think it was OMGDUMB. In fact, his exact words were, “I don’t understand.”
What’s not to understand? I inexplicably lost my car even though I knew exactly where it was. DUH VERY SIMPLE.