I Park Far Away Because I Am Free
There is a spot near the door. You have seen it. You have circled for it, the way people circle most things they want: slowly, in traffic, behind someone who is taking their time leaving.
Count the full cost. The waiting. The creeping. The backing out, later, into a river of shoppers, one car among forty, all of you having saved the same ninety seconds.
Now look at the far row. It is empty. It has always been empty. You pull in on the first try, and the walk is ninety seconds of sky, and when you return your car is exactly where you left it, alone, unbothered, like a person who knew something.
I have run this comparison many times. The far row wins on every measure except one: the first thirty seconds of rain. I accept this loss the way I accept all losses, publicly and without changing anything.
The close spot promises convenience and delivers a crowd. The far row promises nothing and gives you back your afternoon. I know which one I am.