In college, I could parallel park with the best of ’em. At Ball State University, you parallel parked or you walked. Since I lived 45 minutes from campus, the latter wasn’t exactly an attractive option. So I learned.
And it seems, as a thirty-something, I’ve unlearned.
Nowadays, I can’t seem to even pull into a parking spot straight. I’m always crooked. If I do manage to pull in straight, when I get out, I see I’ve taken my half in the middle of two spots.
I’ve been known to have my back end sticking way out because I failed to actually pull into the parking spot. One of these days, someone is going to come along and take it off for me.
From all this, I knew my parking skills were lax, but I didn’t know how bad the problem had gotten until I tried to parallel park a couple weeks ago. That didn’t go well.
I was just swinging into the office for a minute, so I thought I would park on the street and avoid walking in the rain. Thinking was my first mistake.
Of course, the only open spot would require parallel parking. I decided to put on my big-girl pants and just do it.
I pulled past the space just like to you’re supposed to. That’s where I stopped doing it right.
I started to turn the wheel and back in. I must’ve turned too hard because my back tire was making friends with the curb. Realizing I was too far gone to correct, I pulled out and tried again.
This time I didn’t turn the wheel enough, so I was half a car width outside the parking spot. Not wanting to get side-swiped, I pulled out again. Feeling a little dumb, I was ready to say forget it, but that twenty-something buried deep inside said she could do this.
So, I tried one more time.
I turned in way too hard. This time, though, I was so far up the sidewalk I almost took out one of those decorative trees in front of the Tribune offices.
At this point, I decided I was a danger to society and went around back to park. I sulked through the rain to the building, wondering what happened to that college student I once knew.
I was quite disheartened with myself, but was thankful none of my coworkers were around to watch.
Hmm ... I guess they know now.
Misty Knisely
interim [friday] editor / apologized to the tree
[friday]
When did I forget how to park?
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Facebooks threads into more than I expected
“Lindsay, what’s on your mind?”
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Kokomo Speedway
After 18 interviews, copious note-taking, endless discussions and picture browsing for a story about something bigger than its parts — i.e. Kokomo Speedway — is nearly finished. To be honest, I’d never been to Kokomo Speedway until last year. I grew up watching the Indy 500 and picking a name from a hat, but my racing knowledge ended there. But, when you fall in love with someone who fell in love with Kokomo Speedway — most likely when he was still in the womb as his mom watched his dad race — your knowledge increases, exponentially.
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Earth Day: Experience it every day
“No litterers allowed,” stated the sign I drew up with peace signs and flowers with extra power that adorned my bedroom door as a kid. Growing up, I was a litter patrol lady. Toss a banana out the window? You were going to face the wrath of a 6-year-old. Leave a soda can at the park? Oh my, a mistake you don’t want to make. My cousins would purposely provoke such opportunities for nothing more than to get the entertaining spiel of keeping the Earth safe from a 6-year-old. I encouraged institutionalizing recycling in our household and double-checked trash cans to make sure recycling objects didn’t make their way into the wrong places.
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The Waving Girl
She was born on land, but her soul was given life from her love of the sea and the lives it carried. Her journey started simply and ended sentimentally. During the in-between, she was the symbol of home to the hearts of maritime travelers: At night, she was the illumination of guidance. At morn, she was the breeze the sea gently exhaled. For 44 years, she was ingrained with the Savannah River’s sand — just as she was ingrained in the minds who witnessed her waving handkerchief interrupt a sun ray’s storyline. S
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Never too late for April Fool’s Day
This will be my last column for the [friday] section, as Kokomantis has been promoted from corner-side spectator to Lifestyle Editor ... Just kidding, late April Fool’s Day joke! I look forward to writing my column every week just like I look forward to my favorite “holiday” every year. For 364 days, I plan pranks of all varieties for my beloved day that’s dedicated to flipping my family and friends out.
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The Egg Battle of 1990
Easter may be a time of sugary sweet Peeps and darting for hard-boiled eggs dressed in their Easter Sunday best. For me, it’s been about that and getting back to my roots. Growing up, my family and I nestled into my Pap’s motor home and headed for the mountains of West Virginia – our annual Easter Sunday home for my entire childhood.
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Bracket Madness
As a Hoosier, it’s hard to believe Wednesday night marked my first bracket-building experience. Despite my love for sports, I never got into brackets. I’m a one-team-at-a-time gal so in the fall it’s the Colts; in the winter it’s the Hoosiers; and in the spring and summer I go to baseball games for the people watching and soft pretzels. So, I never learned the pros and cons of other teams and what makes them worthy of winning in a bracket.
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Reality is only as deep as our passions
When I was in seventh grade the “Real World” was a reality show I was forbidden to watch. The behaviors flaunted were borderline unfit for TV, let alone a 12-year-old’s eyes. However, that’s what older cousins were for, I suppose, because my remote somehow found its way to MTV a time or two and lessons in how to not live your life ensued. But, today Howard County 7th graders are getting a multifaceted look into life in the “Real World” — and not the kind that encompasses Jell-O wrestling and TV-censored bleeps interrupting 80 percent of a sentence.
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You belong among the wildflowers
It’s the kind of lyrics that wreck your heart and warm your heart all at the same time. The melody happily whistles well wishes while the fingertips of yearning for yesteryear slip over each note. It’s the kind of song that sounds like the simplicity of childhood and feels like the rare chance of finding and living a childhood-type happiness — even if the years between now and the date on your birth certificate say you’re an adult.
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Save IU School of Journalism
As the doors swing to a close, the pens held at the hands of journalists aren’t writing, the recorders aren’t rolling and the cameras aren’t capturing. The envelope of Indiana University School of Journalism’s future is unfolding, but the details are sealed tightly by Lauren Robel, Indiana University Provost, who recommended the school merge with Indiana University’s College of Arts and Sciences (COAS) last week — expelling the journalistic institution from its Ernie Pyle Hall home and potentially downgrading the nationally-ranked school to a program within the bigger-is-better school of thought.
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