I received my first parking citation at the university almost five years ago. It was my first day of work at the Office of The Bursar. I was eighteen, a recent high school graduate in the awkward summer months before starting college. I had no idea what lay before me. I was starting my first real job.
The Bursar’s Office was on the ground floor of the old university library. It was a stately building of Coconino sandstone. It was sweltering in the summer. The fans ran nonstop from when we opened at 7 to when we closed at 4:30. Flies buzzed under the copper ceiling panels.
Fast forward nearly five years later. The night of the 2013 Super Bowl. I’m a college graduate, twenty-three years old, in that awkward year after finishing school and having little to no idea of how to spend my future. I had been watching the game (and making fun of the blackout) with my girlfriend and a few of our friends (all but one of whom I didn’t know five years ago).
I can’t help but be amazed by how far I’ve come in the span of two parking violations. That eighteen-year-old kid could never imagine my life now. My education, my friendships, my interests and my career path have evolved and changed radically in the last half-decade. That’s the nature of growing older — our plans are always in flux.
But some things haven’t changed. I still don’t know where I’m allowed to park.
— 30 —
When I’m not occupied ignoring posted warnings about required permits, you can find me on the Twitter machine: @jonnyeberle.