THE DOCTOR MADE ME DO IT

Yesterday morning I stopped at Target to buy Fancy Feast for Sunshine, the world’s greatest cat, and Musinex tablets for coughing, sneezing, nose-honking Mr. Wonderful who’s unsuccessfully battling an April cold. While putting the cat food and Musinex on the conveyor belt, I felt the checkout guy eyeballing me. Then he said, “I need to see your ID.”

“My ID?  For what?” I sputtered. No one’s asked to see my driver’s license since the first Bush administration, other than TSA workers at Logan Airport and a Maine State Trooper who spotted the expired registration sticker on my Subaru plate last October. 

For one brief nano-second, I was actually flattered. Then, reality hit when he explained, “Look lady, kids are using Musinex to get high these days. It’s cheaper than marijuana and they’re buying it in droves. So it’s our policy to check every customers’s ID who buys a package. Even …..”

Pregnant pause.

Even … wrinkly, liver-spotted, gobbler-necked, thinning-hair 81-years-old me. “I’m sorry, but it’s the law,” he said. I wondered what he’d think if I went out to my car and brought in my hot-off-the-press Handicap Placard. Would he question my validity or age in having one of those?

Yup, I’ve got the free parking pass. I’m also eating a little crow. For years I noticed cars pulling into those next-to-the-front-door mucho-desirable handicap parking spots at CVS or Hannaford’s, then watching LuLuLemon-clad lithe ladies and brawny guys in Footjoy golf cleats leap from their cars in a single bound and jog inside — no limps, no gimps, no walker contraption or apparent disability. What’s up with that, I’d think.

But “apparent disability” is not the key factor in getting one of those helpful placards. My primary doc was reviewing tests results from a month ago, and said, “Val, with your cardiac condition, you should get a handicap sticker. Even though you don’t look like you’re impaired, you actually are.” 

So the doctor made me do it.

I went to town hall, filled out a form, dropped it off at the doctor’s office, and within a week opened an envelope from Maine State Government containing my parking privilege. I have yet to hang it on my rearview mirror. “Impairment” or not, I’m a little embarrassed about it. I walk a mile or two daily at home on my treadmill. I’m perfectly capable of strolling through a parking lot to buy manilla envelopes at Staples.

I’ve also heard bad stories about people with handicap placards being attacked. I recently read about a woman who parked in a handicap spot and, before she stepped out of her car was accosted by a ranting woman who demanded to see her placard. After being shown the legal placard, the annoyed woman huffed, “Well you don’t look handicapped. Are you sure you didn’t borrow that car?” Who needs that?

I’ve discovered, however, that handicap placards offer perks beyond convenient parking. Apparently, I can park for free in metered areas and stay there as long as the time does not exceed twice the limit allowed. 

That’s great but it’s not like winning the lottery. To me it’s just one more reminder that these fabulous Golden Years come with a bit of tarnish.