Rock Star Parking

Don't you know the one time I get a parking space right in front of the venue, I stroll inside and find out that I'm an hour early. I can either go back to Oak Street and chill or keep my parking space and kill an hour. It's Saturday night in Ashland, the first sunny weekend of the year, plus it's high school prom night. Downtown is packed.  I decide to keep the space and start walking towards my office to hang out. Then I realize that I changed purses and left my work key in the other bag. Damn. So, I gave up the space and drove back to Oak Street.

That's what you call a high class problem. I'm sitting in my comfy chair in my stretchy house dress and no bra, my bare feet up on an ottoman.  I'm not killing an hour sitting in my car.  I'm not getting poked in the eye with a sharp stick. Wah wah, poor baby. I'm playing GIGS for cryin' out loud.  So what if I have to sit in my car or kill some time or schlep some gear or whatever. It's worth it.  I can see how it might not be some day but, for right now, it is. 

Plus, I'm sitting in my comfy chair in my quiet room in my own in my little house in town; what's not to love? Virginia Woolf would approve.  I recently re-read her "a room of one's own" essay, the one in which she asks, what if Shakespeare had a sister? Could she be a genius too? Are women inferior? Or is a woman's life (breeding, homemaking) antithetical to the life of the mind?  Actually, I'd never read the entire essay, just the best known section.  I learned that the only reason Virginia had a room of her own to write in was because her aunt died and left her a legacy. It was a rare luxury in that era; hell in any era. 

I have a room of my own. It's pretty damn sweet. I'm grateful. Fuck rock star parking.