Pull into the parking garage. It’s packed. No parking spaces. Behind your vehicle is a line of vehicles, headlights blaring.

In your mirror, you can see motorists behind you, all shaking heads, because you are all playing the infamous parking-lot game, Follow the Leader. And apparently you’re the leader.

When you finally find a parking spot, you’re already late. You jump out of the vehicle and watch the angry motorists speed past you.

You half-jog to the elevators. You’re running VERY late.

In the elevator is a little boy and his mother. They are both carrying overnight bags. Mom looks like she hasn’t slept in eight years. The boy looks worried. He’s so serious.

“Mom?” the boy asks. “Do you think Caleb’s surgery worked?”

Mom flashes an uncomfortable look and tells the boy to hush because they are in an elevator with strangers and it’s not polite to blab your business to strangers.

The boy falls quiet. But there is genuine angst in his mannerisms.

And you’re wondering who Caleb is.

You all get off at the second floor and disappear into the hospital. You are now walking through a huge glass crosswalk, with downtown Birmingham traffic far below you.

You keep pace alongside a gaggle of young, college-age women in pink scrubs. They are laughing and carrying UAB backpacks.

Behind them are two men, doctors maybe, also in scrubs, stethoscopes dangling from their necks, with briefcases, carrying on an in-depth discussion about football.

When you arrive in the lobby, you can tell this hospital was specifically designed for kids. The bright colors. The wacky, vivid artwork everywhere.

In the lobby of this great building are people from all walks, standing around, all waiting for Heaven knows what. Mostly families. There are families of every shape, color, and creed.

You see a family of five, all wearing…

Marriages are down 60 percent since the ‘70s. Divorce rates are soaring. And the New York Times reported that more 40-year-olds are choosing to live alone than ever before.

Another recent survey of U.S. high-schoolers showed that the percentage of 12th graders who have ever dated has fallen 85 percent since the ‘80s. It has fallen another 50 percent within just the LAST FIVE YEARS.

What the heck is going on? Why aren’t people dating, or getting married? What’s to blame? I can’t answer that, I’m too busy scrolling my phone right now.

Nevertheless, one marital expert chimes in.

“The problem is risk. People want guarantees these days. We are a nation of consumers, and consumers require return policies. We need guarantees.”

Another psychologist has a different assessment. “It’s helicopter parenting that’s killing marriage. How can a 20-year-old decide to get married when they haven’t ever built a fort in the woods or ever played House?”

Well, I decided to approach the marriage crisis by asking random people to

give their opinions and advice on the institution of matrimony.

Gary and Delores have been married for 54 years. Gary says: “My 38-year-old son has never been married. Recently he asked what it’s like to be married, so I told him to ‘LEAVE ME ALONE!’ When he did, I asked why he was ignoring me.”

Simon and Anne have been married 62 years. They were married the same year Kennedy was shot. “Marriage is simple. You can either be happy or you can be right. But you can’t be both. Too many people want to be both.”

Lydia and Eddie, 48 years: “Nobody tells you that you don’t fall in love before you’re married. It takes years and years to fall in love. A little more every day.”

Pearl and Jacob say: “People don’t realize that you actually can survive on love. They’ve been told otherwise.”

It was almost kickoff. All my gameday preparations were in order. Life was good.

We were all gathered in the backyard, bundled in warm clothes, with lows hovering around 50°F. The fire pit was roaring. The beer was cold enough to break your molars. My dogs were begging for food from anyone who could fog up a mirror.

The television was sitting on my deck, with extension cords snaking across our yard. The volume was at the maximum setting.

The televised tumult of a 90,278-person crowd inside Los Angeles County’s Rose Bowl Stadium was blaring through the feeble Samsung speakers.

God wanted Alabama to win. That much we knew.

The Rose Bowl pregame segments were steadily broadcasted on the screen. Lots of player footage. Lots of round-table discussions. And an onslaught of roughly 10 million prescription drug commercials.

Also, there were many expert commentators appearing on the screen, administering their deep analyses of what “needed to happen” in this game.

These pregame commentators earn millions of dollars per TV appearance, and here is an example

of the wisdom they impart:

“Yeah, John, listen, this game is about running the ball, you have to run the ball, running the ball is key, even when you don’t want to run the ball you have to run the ball, then you have to run it again, you keep running the ball, because running the ball is everything, John, and if you run the ball, the fact is simple, you’re a team who runs the ball…”

I don’t want my dogs hearing this.

So I mute the TV. Then, I tend to the fire while Alabama rushes the field. Soon, we are all hollering. Even my dogs are making noise.

Alabama has a chance at the National Championship this year. And even if you aren’t a football fan, you know the National Championship is a big deal simply because of its namesake.

I have…

The Old Year is perishing into oblivion. The New Year is crowning, with new blessings to bestow. And I am standing in a self-checkout lane listening to a computer tell me there is an unknown item in the bagging area.

There is no cashier around to assist me. At least I THINK you call them “cashiers.” Although they don’t handle much cash anymore.

Yesterday, for example, in a big-name retail store, my cashier paged his manager for help because he didn’t know how to make correct change when I asked him to break a $100-dollar bill. This cashier was in his mid-thirties.

“You can’t call them ‘cashiers’ anymore,” says one fellow shopper, whose self-checkout computer is also saying there is an unknown item in her bagging area.

We are both waiting for assistance. That’s what the computer tells us to do.

“Saying ‘cashier’ is outdated,” my new friend says. “You’re supposed to call them ‘checkout associates.’”

Meanwhile, both our machines are speaking to us, at the same time, using loud, authoritative, apathetic, computerized voices, akin to a 1968 Stanley Kubrick sci-fi film.

My fellow shopper is frazzled, like me. Our self-checkout warning lights are blinking, with huge monolith beacons above our heads.

The whole store is staring at us. Two felons, caught redhanded, committing the very serious offense of forgetting to weigh our produce.

There are flashing messages on both of our display screens, reading, “¡Artículo desconocido en el área de empaquetado!”

Finally an employee finds us.

The young cashier/sales technician/digital-sales associate comes jogging from the breakroom. She is wearing her work vest. She is chewing food, as though we have interrupted her lunch.

She looks just as disgusted with these machines as we are.

She scans her card, punches in the correct code. “We’re short staffed,” she explains.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “It looks like we’ve interrupted your lunch.”

The employee shrugs. “It’s no problem. I’m used to it.…