It's Showtime!

Way back in August I applied for a Handicapped Parking Permit from both New York City and New York State. At the time I was still totally oxygen dependent 24/7. I got the State permit almost immediately. It allows you to park in those ubiquitous blue parking spots with the wheelchair logo that you see in parking lots in malls, movie theaters, etcetera. It's a handy thing to have to be sure, but it pales in comparison to the city permit. A "Handicapped Person Permit" from NYC is a huge perk for someone who has trouble walking. I guess that means I actually qualify. You can park almost anywhere, except in "No Standing" zones or in front of a hydrant. You laugh at "No Parking" signs and forget about alternate side parking. You sneer at parking meters; you are exempt from feeding them. It's the Holy Grail of parking permits. There's only one eensy-beensy catch: you have to be examined by a New York City doctor. I have an appointment tomorrow. The only problem is that I'm much, much better now than I was in August. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining; I'm thrilled that B"H I'm feeling okay. But in this context, a little wheeze couldn't hurt. So I've decided to pull out all stops: I'll bring my oxygen and my cane, and I'll wear my brace. I've already skipped my Lasix for today, so maybe I'll be a little winded when I get there. It turns out that the office I need to report to is about three blocks from my apartment. If I walk there, I should be legitimately out of breath. I hope all this stuff works. I have this picture in my mind of a bored, underpaid, white-coated bureaucrat grumbling his way through his day, with a big rubber stamp in his hand that says "APPLICATION REJECTED". He'll put the stethoscope that he keeps in the freezer on my chest, listen to my lungs and pronounce them clear. Which they are, B"H. "But I can't breathe!" I'll whisper, perhaps throwing in a cough or a throat clearing for good measure. Maybe if I hack a loogie on his desk...nah, too gross. It reminds me of the time I went to fight a traffic ticket and put my hat and newspaper on the judge's desk. Not smart. I think if the guy could have raised the fine, he would have. So I'll have to stop short of the loogie and take my chances with all my paraphernalia and my incredible acting skills, painstakingly honed by scores of terrible plays in camp. It won't be that different; I had to ad-lib then, and I'll certainly have to ad-lib tomorrow, too. But camp was forty years ago (yikes!). But you know what they say

about riding a bike. Wait a second...what do they say about riding a bike?