I'm pretty sure there's a "spectrum" when it comes to creatures of habit. Individuals probably range from loosey-goosey, to up-tight, to obsessive compulsive. If I asked my friends and relatives to rate me (which I most definitely will not) I'd probably be leaning heavily toward up-tight. . . OK, obsessive compulsive. My point being, most of us exhibit some habitual behaviors. What's interesting is how others rely on my habits to fulfill their own. Let me explain.
Earlier this week, I prepared for my day as usual. Rise and shine. Shower and dress. Juice and cereal. Check facebook and email. Jump in the car. Arrive at school. Park my . . .uh, park my . . .uhh, what the. . . ? You see, someone had parked in my place. Momentarily stunned, I didn't know what to do. Had I driven to the wrong school by mistake? Should I go back home and start again? And . . . whose car is that anyway?
As I began to recover from the initial shock, my rational self slowly emerged. "You don't own that spot," I reminded myself derisively. "They probably didn't mean anything personal," I reassured. "New is good." (OK, I really didn't say that last one.) And finally, I chose another place to park. By the time I turned off the ignition and gathered my belongings, I was actually chuckling to, or at, myself. "Julie," I said. "Get a grip. In the grand scheme of things, this is nothing." And so I unlocked my classroom door, hung up my coat, turned on my computer, straightened the desks, wrote the date on the board, and . . .
Truthfully, I had put it behind me. It was no longer in my thoughts, when suddenly an indignant colleague appeared at my door. "Whose car is that?" they asked. "Everybody knows that's your spot!" Grinning, I charitably said, "Oh, I don't know whose car it is. It's no big deal. I don't own that spot." "Yeah," she said, "but you're parked in my spot!" And she set off in super sleuth mode to uncover the identity of the "parking place poacher."
Throughout the day, I was asked again and again, "Who parked in your spot?" followed up with, "I had to park, blah, blah, blah." It seemed that the whole order of things had been disrupted. (Oh, to be the principal or assistant principal, with a clearly designated parking spot with a sign.)
For three days this travesty continued. (Four days would have qualified it as the new norm.), but suddenly, on what would have been the fourth day, all was well. As if awakening from a bad dream, I pulled seamlessly into my own (after all, it was in fact mine) parking spot. No one said a word, but I noticed the panicked look had left my friend's eyes, and a bounce had returned to her step. And the tone throughout the building? Well, let's just say, it was more relaxed.
This story makes me think of church pews. You could take attendance from the choir loft based on which pews were occupied and which were empty. A visitor who unknowingly sat in a "designated" pew always made for an interesting Sunday morning.
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