The Rise and Fall of a Parking Garage Princess

I’ve spent most of my life
coloring inside the lines.
And it’s served me well
to never break a bone
or a promise.

The Romanticisms of a 30-Something Perfectionist

My mother tells this one story of me as a kid, wobbly and young. My first word being “no-no”, she explains that I would wander around, place to place, pointing out electrical outlets, glass vases, and anything remotely sharp. “No-no", I’d announce to the world.

Before I could call out my own mother’s name, I was identifying the boundaries of what was and was not good for me.

The okays and the no-nos: My mantra.

I’ve spent most of my life coloring inside the lines.
And it’s served me well.
But I’ve never been attracted to it.

I’ve dated boys with messy hair and bad manners and shitty ideals. I’ve written words I’d never say out loud to strangers on the internet¹ , because I like the way it feels. I’ve ruined pages by scribbling notes inside the margins of every book I’ve ever read. I’ve stained my body in hidden places - to gain something permanent from the loss that comes with death.

Maybe that’s the ultimate way to combat the confines of perfection. To remove paper entirely, to put lines to skin.

Or maybe I’m just doing that thing I do, romanticizing no-no’s again.

[The Rise and Fall of a Parking Garage Princess]

This year, my daughter spent her summer with me. Or, I spent my summer with her.

Our days began and ended the same way: the parking garage.

When you have to walk half a mile from car-to-desk with a six year-old every morning, you find time for inventing games. Not the kinds of games with points or rules or winners and losers. The kind of games that can only emerge from boredom - the kind of wasted time that can only become bearable when spent with a friend² .

So we’d spend our mornings ascending and descending parking garages and holding hands and walking along concrete pathways. We’d talk about cats and ladybugs and gravity and the ‘bad Jacob’ from kindergarten.

But every day, as we approached a fork in our commute, there was a decision to be made. Through lost eyes, I’d scan our surroundings in confusion and the game would begin: “Which way?”

It was quite simple. If she’d answer correctly, I’d follow. If she’d guess wrong, I’d excitedly yell, ”Oh! Long cut!” and she would decidedly change her mind. But other times, when she wanted to test the boundaries of our little game, we’d follow her lead in the wrong direction for an extra block or two until getting back on track.

And so it went. She’d play along and we’d spend our mornings getting lost together. But we would always find our way.

On special days, our game extended to the car, where I’d suddenly forget which way we needed to turn to get home. And so the game continued: We’d get lost together. And we’d always find our way.

To her, it was pretend.
To her, it was a game.
To me, it was slowly putting cracks in the unrealistic expectations of having to always know your way. Practice, perhaps, for the day when I won’t be around anymore to “play”.

No one really knows where they’re going, anyways.

Maybe it’s because he’s a boy with messy hair and bad manners, but I haven’t been able to stop listening to Mk.gee. Specifically, Alesis(Live)⁴ .

“It’s like a reimagining of what a live performance video can be.”

scribble outside the lines a little.
-cd

1  hey, you.

2  I’ve never subscribed to the “I’m your parent, not your friend” mentality. Relationships are too complex for dichotomies. And friends³ are severely underrated.

3  hey, you.

4  And “I want”. And “How many miles”. And “Are You Looking Up”. And “Rylee & I”. And…