getting it off my chest

The 1993 Ford Explorer I drive does not boast many luxuries. While I am thankful that it does have power windows and locks (even if there is no remote key fob), and we did add a decent stereo about five or six years ago, it lacks many amenities commonly found in newer cars. Despite its 100,000+ miles, however, it still gets me about town and isn't too embarrassing for my kids to be seen in.

One thing I do have in my glove box that many people my age do not is a handicapped parking placard, courtesy of my 81-year-old mother and her failing eyesight and bad knees. When she obtained the parking pass a few years ago she was given two--one for her car and one for mine, since I often take her about town in my car. I admit there have been many times I have been glad to have that permit when we're out running errands, allowing us the advantage of greater availability and more convenient parking spots. I never use the permit unless she is with me, as that would not be honest or fair.

Well, at least I never have until last Friday.

I had to make a stop at a County office on my way home from work to pick up some papers. It was a drizzly day. I had on pointy-toed shoes that were cute, but starting to cramp my toes. It was slightly chilly and I had no coat. I was running late. There were no parking spaces that weren't a half-mile away. I was a desperate woman. And I did it.

I debated whether or not to limp out of the car up to the building, possibly making would-be onlookers sympathetic and less judgemental. I didn't.

Just had to get it off my chest. It won't happen again.