A Note To The Person Who Parked Right Next To Me In An Empty Parking Lot
Really, I’m flattered, but get away from me.
Dear Fellow Traveler:
I know you’re going to find this impossible to believe, but I parked waaaaaaaay over here in the most lonely, desolate part of the parking lot because I don’t want anyone else to park next to me. Crazy, huh?
I was about to make a kamikaze run into the store for tampons and a protein bar when you parked two inches away from my driver-side door. In fact, you parked so close, I’ll have to suck in my rib cage and remove my spleen in order to get out.
Look, I get it. Maybe that’s “where you always park”. You probably weren’t even paying attention when you parked a pube’s width away from my car. You were too distracted by the Oregon Trail-like ordeal of driving across the entire parking lot to pull in next to me.
Maybe you chose that parking space because it was bestowed upon your people by God, like Israel.
Wait, is that parking space a portal to another realm? Are you rummaging around under your front seat and whipping mummified French fries onto the dash because you’re looking for an Infinity Stone that can control time and space and come up with a better ending to Avengers: Endgame?
Or—no, no, let me guess—you’re legally blind and you can only park your sweet ride (a Chevy Malibu held together by rust and Bondo) by guiding off another parked car. Like swallows in flight.
I know! You lost your virginity right there in that very parking space back when this CVS was a Piggly Wiggly. You and Mary Catherine Polanski (you were both baggers) were getting hot and heavy in the backseat of that very car, which was a piece of shit back then, too, but a nicer piece of shit, when somebody complained and called the cops and you were charged with Public Indecency and Corruption of a Minor.
Mary Catherine said she was 18, but guess what? Next thing you know you have a criminal record, you’re $5000 behind on child support, and the IRS keeps withholding your income tax refund that you were going to use to buy a PS5.
Or was my ethereal, wan (same say “pasty”) beauty too much to resist? I’ve been told I look like Juice Newton, who was pretty hot, if I do say so myself.
Really, I’m flattered, but I’m already in an imaginary relationship with Jacob Elordi who I feel like is this close to pulling a Hayden Christensen, but that just means he’ll have more time to raise Labradoodle puppies with me in Saskatchewan on our organic lavender farm where we also make goat’s milk soap with those swirly patterns and run a penguin rescue (it’s a very complicated fantasy).
You look angry. Maybe that’s because I’m saying all of this out loud and you can hear me through your open window.
Are those American Spirit cigarettes? Wow. I’ve got some thoughts about those, but maybe I’ll keep them to myself for now.
Look, I’m going to start my car and pull over to another parking spot. No, please, it has to be this way. Don’t forgo all dignity by chasing after me. It’s not you, it’s me. I don’t want to be parked next to your crappy car.
I feel you. Like you, I don't understand it. Even my kids have noticed and commented that any time I roll into an empty parking lot, hunker down in a parking spot far far away from the entrance of whatever retail shop or restaurant I'm headed to, some alien space pod will be parked at least 1-2 cars from mine upon our return. Why? Why? Why? My magnetic personality?In admiration of my stellar parking skills? Contrasting car color comparison? I don't get it. And I also don't get why it bothers me so much. I kinda do, but I don't.
Writing is only a venting thing sometimes. THAT part I get. Write on Bev. Write on.
This has been a hot button for me since I parked in a remote location on a visit to the local Kroger, way up on a hill, far from any other cars. When I cam out there was a giant streak of white paint and some dents on the right side of my week-old car. This reinforced my belief that people are no damn good.