I made a very adult decision today, which is to say: I begged off rehearsal at Beth Shalom Temple for a reason that would make absolutely no sense to anyone who doesn’t live in my apartment complex.
I’m not sick.
I’m not tired.
I’m not overwhelmed.
I simply knew that if I moved my car, I would never find parking again. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not until the Messiah comes riding in on a cloud with a municipal parking permit.
This is the kind of logic you develop when you live in a neighborhood where parking is a competitive sport and everyone else is playing for blood.
So I stayed home…. and I’m going to be here for a while, because I don’t have a shovel. I just have to count on the kindness of strangers. I have never once asked anyone to shovel me out, just to let me borrow theirs once they’re done. And usually someone will approach me and ask me if they can use it. I will say that it’s my neighbor’s, but I’ll help them dig out before I take it back. You have to be like that around here because we are all in this together.
Twelve inches is not a forecast.
Twelve inches is a plot twist.
It’s the kind of number that makes you sit back, blink twice, and say, “Oh. So this is the chapter we’re in now.”
Hunger struck, and I folded because leaving the house for a quick bite was a whole other proposition than getting stranded out in Stafford. Staying at the farm would be great, but coming home would be unwise until the plows had a chance to do their magic. 95 would have been a parking lot all the way home, turning a quick two-hour trip into four or five.
(For those who think “two hours is not quick,” shut it. I’m from Texas. Even though I live in Maryland now, my sense of scale has not changed. Besides, I don’t count in time. I count in episodes of “True Crime with Kendall Rae.”)
So I broke my own rule….. and ventured out into the world for the most sacred of snow‑day meals: the two‑cheeseburger combo from McDonald’s. It is, objectively, the grown‑up Happy Meal. Same flavors, same comfort, same soft textures — just without the toy. Please note that the toy is not a dealbreaker, I just eat a lot.
(A few weeks ago I thought I was ordering for everybody when I said yes to appetizers, and she thought I was going to eat them all. I was so embarrassed. And grateful, because I hadn’t eaten all day. To my brain that means “inhale food like a nine-year-old.”)
By the time I got home, the parking lot was a battlefield. Every space was claimed except one: the spot my neighbor believes is hers by divine right. Not legally. Not contractually. Just spiritually. She calls it a disabled spot. It isn’t. She calls it her spot. It definitely isn’t. If it was marked, she could not park there because she does not have a disabled tag.
And I — calm, fed, snow‑day serene — pulled right into it.
No drama.
No hesitation.
Just a quiet, decisive act of reclaiming reality.
If I have to stay in this apartment until Jesus comes, so be it. I’m not moving the car.
I felt a little tug of disappointment. Not guilt. Not shame. Just that soft ache of wanting to be somewhere meaningful. I wanted to be at synagogue tomorrow. Jesus is with me all the time. I figure every now and then I should take him somewhere he might want to go.
I didn’t picture it as “Jesus is disappointed in you.” I pictured it like Jesus wanted to show me something, because I’m not particularly religious about going to church, but I do see him in everything. I’ve felt his presence every time I’ve gone to shul because it’s something he would have done.
And now it’s delayed.
Not canceled.
Not lost.
Just… postponed by weather and the petty geopolitics of community parking.
Snow does that.
It slows everything down — even the things you were looking forward to.
So here I am, in my apartment, watching the sky prepare to drop a full foot of frozen validation on my parking strategy…..
and for now, that will have to be enough. Time with the clan is important to me, but it’s not enough for it to be important. It also has to be safe. It was a rough call, but now I am determined to enjoy it.
If you’re wondering, I’ll be walking to the store.
Stories That Are All True 