I got to the airport Sunday morning with no trouble, found a parking spot and had the forethought to snap a picture of the level/row I was parked on. I knew I would be getting back late on Wednesday night and would be, more than likely, cranky from the lack of dinner and general travel nuisances. Wednesday night arrived while I was in the air and after a
slightly extremely bumpy landing through a storm, I checked my phone’s photo reel to insure I would get to my car as soon as I could.
Level 2, Row G – got it. I got off the plane, went to baggage claim and waited (and waited) amongst the travelers who had loved ones waiting at the airport for them (gag!). My bag was the third one out the gate, so I snatched it up and headed for the parking deck. My bed was so close I could feel it. I entered the parking deck on level 2 and walked towards Row G. I walked up Row G and noticed it was missing a red, sparkly Mazda, so I walked down the other side. Still no sign of the Moozda. “Okay – don’t panic.. You’re just overlooking it in your excitement to be in the eastern time zone,” I thought to myself as I reached into my bag to pull out my keys. I mashed the lock button twice – nothing. I pressed the panic button. Silence.
Awesome. Someone stole my car. Just picture me meandering up and down Row G with my bright orange suitcase, on the phone with my dad saying, “Well I don’t know what to tell you. Are you sure you’re on the right row?” At that moment, I looked up and realized Row G extends past the car ramps that lead up and down the levels. Cool. I just knocked off four years of my life thinking that I was stranded at the airport and was going to have to buy a car. I wonder if I’d get a discount on therapy if I made a portfolio of all of my dumb moments and self-inflicted panic attacks.