It all started the very first year I got my drivers’ license.
I did my Christmas shopping on my own for the very first time. I drove to the local shopping centre, parked my car, bought some stuff and returned to my car. Except my car was not there. My car, as far as I could tell, was not anywhere.
If you, too, have ever had to sit outside McDonalds for four hours wondering whether Santa spirited your car away in some kind of Christmas prank and waiting for the other cars to leave so that you could perhaps locate your own by a process of elimination, you’ll know that I did not have a good day. I may have cried a little into my cheeseburger.
Okay, I ate six cheeseburgers, and I cried into all of them. A lot.
The good news is, I found my car (eventually). The bad news is, I’ve never gotten over it. And I never will. Because somehow, every year, Christmas shopping seems to get EVEN WORSE. Especially if, like me, you leave it to the last moment.
There are three distinct stages of Christmas shopping horror. I hate all of them, and I can only assume that every other sane person does too.
WHERE WILL I PARK?
Before I even venture inside to the shops where they sell the things that will bring me closer to the ultimate goal of leaving the godforsaken place, I have to find a park. The rules of Christmas parking go like this: if you don’t want to drive around in circles for hours on end, you have to follow an unsuspecting shopper back to their vehicle, which I can only imagine makes them very uncomfortable.