Every time I pull into a crowded parking lot and see that one empty handicap spot right up front, a tiny, terrible thought pops into my head: what if I just parked there for a minute?
Just a minute. Not a real crime. Just…a micro-crime.
It glows blue like it’s taunting me. It’s right there, perfectly lined, practically calling my name. My car even slows down like it’s considering it too. I don’t do it — obviously — but for three glorious seconds, my brain spins this whole story about how technically, if I’m fast enough, it wouldn’t hurt anyone.
The Confession
I always start rationalizing immediately. “I’ll just run in and grab coffee. Two minutes tops.” “There are like seven other handicap spots!” “It’s basically a victimless crime.”
The brain is a world-class defense attorney when convenience is involved.
Once, outside a grocery store, I even put my blinker on. The spot was right by the door, perfectly shaded, practically whispering, you deserve this. And then I saw the blue wheelchair symbol painted on the pavement, and my conscience screamed louder. I turned off the blinker so fast you’d think the asphalt was lava.
Then came the shame. The deep, moral hangover that hits when your inner rebel gets caught — by you. I sat there in my car, pretending to scroll my phone, waiting for the guilt to settle back down. Because that’s what this is: a harmless thought that somehow manages to make me feel like a villain in a public service announcement.
The Reflection
It’s not about parking. It’s about rebellion — or at least the idea of it. That little flicker of “what if I just did something mildly wrong and got away with it?”
It’s the same impulse that makes you want to touch the “wet paint” sign, or take an extra sample at Costco when the worker’s not looking. It’s not malicious; it’s curiosity mixed with petty power.
I think everyone has a line they know they’ll never cross but still like to walk up to and stare at for fun. Mine just happens to be a bright blue rectangle with a white symbol in the middle.
It’s weird how temptation works. It’s rarely about big sins. It’s the small ones that whisper the loudest.
The ones that look harmless, almost funny — the ones where you catch yourself thinking, well, technically…
And honestly, sometimes the fantasy itself is the release. You don’t need to do it. You just need to know you could, and that you won’t. That’s how you know you’re still a decent human — because you talked yourself out of it before you even took your seatbelt off.
The Realization
So no, I’ve never parked there. Not once.
But the fact that I think about it every single time? That’s my private little thought crime.
It’s harmless, but it makes me laugh at myself — how dramatic I get over a parking space. The tiny moral Olympics that happen inside my head before I finally park twelve rows back and tell myself the walk is “good exercise.”
Still, I’ll be honest: if I’m ever ninety years old, cane in hand, I’m going to park in that spot with the same thrill as a teenager sneaking out at midnight.
Some dreams can wait.
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