I had to go downtown Tuesday, and the closest (affordable) parking lot was four blocks away. When I came back, it took me an hour to walk around all sides of the block before I could find the (unlabeled) street entrance and the right (unlabeled) door.
So when I went to see my physiatrist yesterday, I shoved a piece of paper at him. “Here,” I said. “Number 8.” The paper was an application for a handicapped parking placard, and number 8 is the code for “severely limited in his or her ability to walk due to an arthritic, neurological, or orthopedic condition.” He signed it, and threw in a prescription for physical therapy. “Sometimes they want this,” he said. (Just to make it clear to the Dept. of Transportation I was old, I stuck an Elvis stamp on the envelope.)
He said there aren’t many really good PT offices in the city. He wants me to go to this place in New Jersey that actually has underwater treadmills — which sounds cool to me.
Two month’s worth of thrice-weekly bridge tolls, though. It never ends. Now I know why old people are so cranky!