That Handicap Placard

I don’t drive. That means I don’t park either.  But I have to get from point A to point B and someone has to take me there, so in my gigantic purse that Mom refers to as one of Zsa Zsa’s trunks, I have a handicap placard.  I afix it to the rear view mirror of the car in which I’m riding and have my driver legally park in a designated handicap space.  In Tennessee, these placards are issued to residents who:

• are confined to a wheelchair
• walk with difficulty 
• have 20/200 vision or worse with corrective lenses (forget corrective lenses! I’m legally blind!)
• are the parent or legal guardian of someone who is permanently disabled and incapable of operating a motor vehicle (guess I qualify here, too! It’s permanent and I can’t drive)

For some odd reason, parking lots have vigilante parking lot police (usually some random middle aged dude) who feels it’s his duty to yell at my driver and me for parking in a designated handicapped space. No sir, we aren’t in wheelchairs.  Yes, we know where we’ve parked.  The latest tirade was directed toward my mom as she opened the rear hatch to get out the stroller for my daughter on our very first outing.  I had yet to even open the car door.

 I’m thinking of a magnetic sign to stick on the back of the car as well as the handicap placard for the rear view mirror.  It will say:  YOU CAN HAVE MY PARKING PLACE IF YOU’LL TAKE MY VISION LOSS.

#handicapplacard  #parking  #LHON  #lebershereditaryopticneuropathy