The Unofficial Officials

Brought to you by force of habit.

Some time ago, one of the local papers, in its community/write-in section, had a discussion going about "unofficial officials" — that is, having a parking space (or whatever) that might as well be officially yours since you use it so often, but it's not officially marked. You know it's an unofficial official if you get annoyed when someone else uses your _____, even though it's not really yours.

When I started looking around, I realized that I have several unofficial officials. Some have arisen from habit, others from necessity. At my old job, for instance, I always parked my car in about the same place in the large, crowded lot and got grumpy if I arrived at the wrong time and my favorite spots were already filled. I formed this habit mostly so I wouldn't forget where I'd parked, but eventually it became a public service as well: my friends could tell with a glance at "my" spot whether I was at work yet, and it threw all of us off when I parked somewhere else.

Now that I drive to the train station each morning, I have a new unofficial official parking space: three slots from the crosswalk, right by the tree. I usually don't have to worry about finding it occupied, as the other half-dozen drivers routinely there before me have staked their claims elsewhere. Little red pickup: on the end. Blue sedan: beside the light pole. Brown car: mid-row facing north. Some fly-by-night aced out Red Pickup a few days ago, bumping him down into my territory, and it was just wrong. The cars themselves were unsettled. I could feel it.

I have an unofficial official seat on the train, too: just inside the doors, facing rear, with plenty of legroom. I only vacate it if a wheelchair user needs the space. Similar routine applies on the bus.

And it doesn't stop there, oh no. I have an unofficial official parking space in every public bathroom I frequent, too. Of course, it's not as simple as always going to door #3; my preference depends on where I am. I've even noticed, now that I've attended CONvergence at the same hotel a few years in a row, that I have unofficial official stalls in the bathrooms there. And in the truck stops where I gas up the Subarushi when I roadtrip to Mother Media's house. Any psych majors out there need thesis material?

When I drive my car to the T'ai Chi studio, I always park it in the same place. When we're waiting in the hallway for the studio to open, I always sit and stretch in the same place. In the dressing room, I have an unofficial official dumping spot for my bag, which my classmates will leave open even if the room is crowded — because they've all gone to "their" spots. Inside the studio, the space beneath the clock is unofficially officially mine; I know because people will look there first if they want to find me.

All through grade school and high school, I bridled at the constraint of assigned seating — yet when I finally got to college, I quickly assigned myself seat in each class, as did almost everyone else. Same in the cafeteria. Same in the lounge. Same at the local watering holes (or so I'm told, because I of course did not enter such establishments). Colleagues sit in the same chairs meeting after meeting. Friends choose the same theater seats movie after movie. When the usual suspects get together at Partner-san's house, everyone, including the dog, has a designated seat.

Free to choose, we choose to limit ourselves. Faced with variety, we opt for sameness. Give us the open road and we'll groove it with ruts.

Welcome to the Land of Opportunity.

Today around the world: July 15 is the Sultan's Birthday in Brunei Darussalam.