The husband was returning from a business trip to Calgary this afternoon and he had asked me to pick him up at the airport. I generally loathe the drive to the airport. It is all highway driving, which by definition does not thrill me, (I think it is my aversion to speed that kills the excitement of the highway. "Life may be a highway", but I prefer the slower and more deliberate "Country Roads"!) and to make the trip that much less enjoyable, it has been raining steadily all day today. In addition, Pearson International Airport has been a misery to access over the last few years. There has been continual construction and the roads to the terminals have changed so many times, I have found myself on outer auxiliary routes too many times to mention. But, the husband
Now this brand-spanking terminal is absolutely state of the art. The parking garage is a wonder of modern technology. When you enter into the complex, you are stopped at the gate by an automated machine that should dispense your ticket. Being the conscientious driver that I am, I pull up as close to the machine as I can without scrapping the side of my beloved car. I roll down the window and to my horror, I discover that my arms are not long enough to reach the f@$#*&g button. I remove my seat belt and practically do a contortionist maneuver in order to reach. Still no dice. I literally stick half of my body out of the window and finally manage to push the button. As I am hanging half of my body out of the driver's side window and getting soaked in the process, the f@#$*^g machine spits the ticket out at me as if it were hocking a loogy!!! The ticket, which I will require to exit the bloody terminal is now in the water, muck and tire grease of a Toronto rainstorm. I wriggle back into the car (swearing the entire time) and put the car in park, because now I have to open the door to scrape the wet ticket off of the asphalt. All the while, the asshole in the gas-guzzler behind me is honking his horn as if I were doing this for some sort of enjoyment. I finally manage to find the bloody thing under the front end of my car, and enter into the parking garage. It takes me a good few minutes to dry off the ticket (which I can only pray will be accepted by the automated teller on the way out!) and make my way into the arrivals lounge, where I discover that the husband's flight is delayed by 1/2 hour. Now the parking gods not only had a great laugh at my expense, they are going to charge me extra for the privilege. Please answer this question for me: "Isn't there an industrial engineer anywhere in the world that recognizes those of us under 5'0"? " I get it-I am short, but do I need to be humiliated by this fact every time the world insists on technologically re-inventing itself! GIMME A BREAK!!!