Barbara

Do I remind you of that friend from high school you’ve run into on the street yet?

“Oh hey! It’s been forever… What’s new?” And then you try to debrief the past few years, straddling the awkwardness of distance and the nostalgia of what was.

A few months since the last entry. It’s been forever. What’s new?

Well, last we left off: our protagonist was living in the “beach shack,” grappling with the yearning of the first May sans summer break homecoming. 

Angsty poetry ensued.

And now flash forward, I’ve moved again. Surprise! 

Welcome to South Boston. I still live near the beach. Except this one is full of sexy tan people who go on runs.

I fit right in!

This is my favorite spot so far. We’ve got a plant store, coffee shop, and metaphysical place within walking distance of us. The Amanda necessities.

I built an indoor greenhouse set up in my bedroom. No succulent casualties yet. Big wins all around.

And now for the cons list:

Parking.

My new roommate, Lyndsey, is a San Francisco local, parallel street parking extraordinaire. 

She didn’t humor my pity party when I realized I’d be dabbling in bumper-to-bumper.

And don’t get me started on weekly street cleaning. That’s a total display of parking artistry. 

Half the road becomes towing material if you so choose to position yourself there, so the sexy beach people displace themselves among the side streets in the meantime. 

That would be so fun and awesome. Except apparently you need to “have your vehicle annually inspected” out here, unbeknownst to me. So I enjoyed my street parking privilege and was rewarded with a neon orange ticket graced by the Boston Police. 

Lyndsey and I share one parking space next to our apartment. Usually whoever comes home first wins the space, but I received special princess treatment considering my outstanding crimes.

Then street cleaning struck again. 

Long story short: Lyndsey and I made the strategic decision to leave both of our cars in the parking space like the lovely friends we are until half of the road became available to us again in an hour or so.

Cut to me: enjoying a post-work Corona on my living room couch, about to crack open a good book.

Honk. Honk, honk. HONK. HOOOONK.

Some dumbass was attempting to spell my name in morse code with their car horn in my parking lot.

Now’s a great time to also mention that Lyndsey dog sits. I was home alone with this angry wolf dog who smelled bad, shed, and attempted to kill anything that came near our apartment.

Then a woman appeared at our front door. Wolf growled. Corona neglected.

I propped the door open, “Hello?”

“I’m Barbara." Heavy Boston accent.

“Uh… Hey Barbara.”

She asked me whose gorgeous 2014 red Camry was parked in the spot. Mine, of course.

“Well, that’s my spot,” Barbara said.

“Yeah, sorry. Street cleaning’s going on and usually no one’s there, so my roommate and I both parked in the lot,” I answered. 

“You could’ve left a note on your car. My family’s paying for this space, so move it.”

Well fuck you too, Barbara.

And it’s the worst when someone’s being annoying and stubborn but also they’re technically right. 

So I humored Barbara and moved the hot rod.

She never asked my name either. Just left.

I begrudgingly returned to Corona time next to the smelly wolf dog. I opened the book I’d been meaning to read.

This book was “better than an Oxford education,” according to Lyndsey’s family. Slightly cheaper as well.

So here I was, now Barbara-less, with my book of knowledge.

The first chapter instantly delved into the natural resistance we have toward learning new perspectives. It challenged ego, speaking on confirmation bias and humanity’s inclination toward living in the shaky worldview foundation that we’ve already built for ourselves.

I hated it. 

Because I live in this little haphazard shack of chip sales, somewhat redundant blog posts, and the same rotation of books that I’ve been reading for the past five years.

And I mean, I can give myself credit on moving across the country and all that. I live in Southie now!

But I’m still mulling over the same thought spirals I’ve had since I was ten.

Maybe I’m already set in my ways at the ripe age of 23. I’m not a big fan of forming new productive habits and accepting criticism right now.

I guess challenging my perspective is how I’ll achieve ultimate wisdom or something. Maybe it will lead to the betterment of me as a human being in my newfound Bostonian neighborhood.

It’s annoying but it’s technically right.

So maybe the lesson here is that everything in life can be a Barbara. 

Life itself might be a series of Barbaras knocking on your door and challenging you when all you want is a Corona.

And you can fight Barbara, but she can tow you.

So move your car, I guess?

Good to be back.