After I cruised the grocery-store parking lot for ten minutes, a spot finally opened up. I had pulled halfway in when I saw the sign that read, “Reserved for parents with small children.” That’s so thoughtful. That’s so sweet. A teenager who’s had three babies with three different dads can get a better parking spot than me. It warms the heart.

Who am I compared to a parent with small children? I’m just the person who pays the taxes that built the parking lot I can’t park in. I deserve no special consideration whatsoever. I’m just a worthless, inconsequential middle-aged man with a heart condition. But there is no “Reserved for taxpayers” parking spot.

I wonder if it’s too late for me to have small children? That’s silly. Should I have small children just to get a better parking spot? And what do you do with children when they grow up? Then they’re practically worthless for parking purposes. Maybe I should join a big-brother program and mentor just on the days I need groceries.

Sure, if you’re young enough and healthy enough to bear children, you are probably sprier than I am, but I’m sure the walk from the far end of the parking lot to the front of the store will do me good. So you’re probably doing me a favor by making me walk.