One of the hindrances of growing older is not being able to find your car in the parking lot. One day when I noticed an older woman clearly searching for her vehicle in a crowded lot, I kindly offered to help. She responded by telling me she could find her car on her own.
A more uplifting story about losing one's car comes from a couple of my older friends who sometimes drive an old beat-up blue Impala, and at other times, a slightly newer and spiffier red Caddy. On one of their weekday shopping excursions, they decided to drive their Sunday car, the Caddy, instead of the beat-up relic.
Coming out of the store, they could not remember where they parked, so they wandered around surveying the sea of sedans and SUVs and pickups. After walking way too many steps, the tall man and his wife stopped to visually scour the panorama. They were scanning in every direction when one of them noticed the red Caddy right beside them. It had been under their noses all along, but they had both been looking for blue instead of red. They laughed about forgetting which car they drove and told the story to many of their friends.
I have not lost my car, but I experienced another kind of parking lot peril last summer. My husband and I exited the grocery store, one of us pushing the cart, until we stopped at our car and opened the trunk. Unbeknownst to us, we had parked on an incline. We were rearranging the trunk's contents when loud repetitive horn blasts demanded our attention. Meanwhile, the one who had been pushing the cart had let go of it, and as I turned to address the car horn commotion, I saw our cart full of groceries barreling across the parking lot.
Instantly, I shot off running more determinedly than the time I tried out for the track team in the ninth grade. Sprinting across the pavement, pocketbook flailing, I noticed in my peripheral vision a guy on the sidelines, grinning, watching as though at a sports event, obviously amused by my moment of public embarrassment. I ran as fast as my sandaled feet would carry me, scrambling to make contact with the runaway. I eventually grabbed the handle and halted potential destruction. With the theatrics over, the young man turned around and headed to his sedan.
My heart was still thumping like a puppy's tail on a hardwood floor when my husband and I sat down in the car. He had noticed the young man on the verge of coming to my rescue and said, "It was nice of him to play backup."
As we pulled out of the space, I asked if he thought anyone recognized us.
“I hope not,” he said. Then he added, "I'm glad you were wearing your speedy sandals today."
More and more, the challenges of growing older are being revealed, sometimes through the tales of my older friends and sometimes through my own forgetfulness. Maneuvering through stacks of years and rows of cars can be tricky, but in preparation for the day when I am crisscrossing the pavement in search of my blue car when I should be looking for the black one, I hope to remember my daddy's words.
"We might as well laugh as cry," he used to say. I agree. I will try to remember his wisdom the next time I am outrunning a grocery cart, or grappling with a broken heart.