For those who have forgotten, I’m a second year law student. Consequently, on occasion I have been known to attend classes. And this is why I have to deal with one of the most frustrating aspects of law school: parking.
Words cannot express the intense hatred I have for those tiny cars that hide just out of view, obscured by a larger vehicle just long enough to make you believe that there could possibly be a parking spot waiting for you. What’s worse, ten minutes after class starts, when you finally find a place to park, there’s no joy or flood of relief…there’s only that bizarre feeling that there’s been some mistake, like the space is supposed to be marked off with yellow warning tape that was blown away by an errant breeze, and in a few moments the garage ceiling will collapse, fatally crushing you beneath its weight as Alanis Morissette’s “Ironic” reaches its crescendo in the soundtrack of your life.
Then, after sprinting the ten miles from the edge of town where you actually managed to find a free space, you burst into class forty minutes late and feel the gut-wrenching terror that can only come from having ninety law students staring at you…judging you…undressing you with their eyes…
Sure, you try to reassure yourself that they’re just looking at you because you kicked the door open, gasping for air and swearing under your breath, but you can’t shake that sneaking suspicion that there’s something more sinister in their eyes. Soon, you’re shouting and slamming your fists on whatever surfaces happen to be nearby in an attempt to deter them, but that only makes it worse.
As security drags you away, kicking and screaming about their cold, dead eyes boring into your skin, you reflect on how, in retrospect, you probably could have handled this situation better. Perhaps tomorrow you should leave a few minutes earlier, just to be on the safe side.