Parking

I’m not great at it.

You’d think it would be easy, right?

Someone paints the actual lines on the ground and you just place the car between them.

I’m always just a teeny bit off. Or a little more off. Or I’ve parked just too close to the car to my left to get my fat ass out of the car, and I have to back up and try again.  Or, you know, I’ve almost taken off the mirror of the car on my right and, uh, same.

One of my favorite places to park is the yarn store– they’ve got a big plate glass window, and it’s like doing jete’s in a mirror, I can see my self going in and I can keep my body straight.

And one of my biggest pet peeves (since, you know, I touched a nerve with the bag boys who are going to get thrown to the zombies and I seem to be on a roll here) is people who park so severely off, that anyone parking next to them is going to look fucked up as well.  

Oh, you poor deprived millionaire, did you not want to park and repark your Lexus fifty million times to make sure it’s in between the lines?  Well, tough, because now that you are using two parking spaces and are parked opposed to all of the rules of nature, using that space and a half next to you isn’t going to be hard at ALL.

Or, well, it shouldn’t be, because it’s a space and a half, but when you’re trying to orient yourself to two differently pointed vehicles, you end up in a strange angle between of entry, and you’re late for your doctor’s appointment anyway, and fuck it! So what if when this person pulls out it’s going to make you look greedy and uncaring AND even more of a fuck up than they are, since you apparently TRIED to park right, but just weren’t competent enough to gitterdone!

So, anyway…

I got back, and the offending car was still there.

And a tiny, childish part of me was filled with glee.

Because there might have been odds that, somehow, people would realize this weirdly parked car taking up two parking spaces really WAS the catalyst behind two rows of bad parking and it WASN’T me after all. 

And, quite frankly, the whole thing reminds me of when I was sitting next to a tiny woman on an airplane who yelled at me because my fat thigh slid an inch and was, oh my god, touching her and contaminating her seat with my fat.

Except it’s with cars.

And parking spaces. 

And why can’t I be 100 pounds and drive a Kia Sportage and take up as little room as humanly possible?

Why?

WHY?