Musings of an Italian-American Catholic wife, mother, and writer

Musings of an Italian-American Catholic wife, mother, and writer

Monday, February 13, 2017

They Don't Have Cars in Camelot

Yesterday a friend and I went to see Camelot at Augusta University's Maxwell Theater.


I drove, and this is important because of what happened after the show was finished.


I couldn't find my car.


Actually, it was Joe's car, and it's a non-descript slate gray that looks like every other non-descript slate gray car in the parking lot.


"I think we parked over here," said my friend, heading left.


"I'm pretty sure it was over here," I said, veering right.


We bumped into another friend who wondered what we were doing. "Looking for my car" seemed like such a lame thing to say, but since it was so incredibly obvious what we were doing the only thing I could do was 'fess up.


After wandering around for a couple of minutes I decided to pop the trunk. I'm not proud of this, but better the trunk than the alarm button. As I looked around, though, no trunks had popped open.


What the heck? By now I'm beginning to feel stupid.


Finally, between the three of us, we found the car, parked behind a behemoth SUV that dwarfed my little non-descript slate gray Toyota. I blame everything on that SUV ...


especially since the lyrics for Camelot will be forever changed in my mind.


In short, there's simply not
A more congenial spot
For happily-ever-aftering
than here in
 the parking lot.



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