Monday, April 11, 2016

Mystery of the glamorous parking spot

I know you come here to have all your questions answered. 

You don't? 

Not even the questions you didn't know you had?

Hmmm. Well that's why I come here. But I guess it makes sense that the two of us might come here for completely different reasons.

But anyway, even though you come here to have all your questions answered, I mean, except for how you don't, there are a variety of things that befuddle me in life, things that I do not have the answers for.

Fortunately I have the gods. As my blog is to you, if you were different, so the gods are to me.

And so here is today's problem:

We not only have a lot of parking spaces at the large suburban library I work at, but they are scattered in a vast variety of distances from the entrances to my library. Not only that, but there are a great many specialty, preference spots at my library, including vanpool and carpool only, handicapped, library use only, and fuel efficient vehicle parking spaces. One of our handicapped spots is by the staff only entrance. It is there, presumably, for the use of disabled employees or disabled volunteers. Its location is convenient to a low key staff/volunteer entrance, but it's location is incredibly far from the front doors of the library. Outside of one or two major events each year there will always be dozens, possibly a hundred available spots closer to the front door of the library than this one, including a few handicapped spaces directly across from the public entrance to the library. And yet every time I glance out the back windows of my library it seems there is some disabled patron parking there or returning, via long, cross parking lot journey, to their parked car there. I have long wondered who these people are that seek out this obscure spot designed for those who have difficulty covering long distance? Who parks in this spot and then treks 200 yards to the entrance of the library? Why do they do so?

I have a few weak theories, but they will not do. So I humbly ask the gods.

The gods are busy roasting a chicken.

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