Last Friday, I experienced parking spot rage. I thought I had experienced all the potential rages one could experience in an automobile. I had discovered my inner road rage and taken deep cleansing breaths. I had even raged in parking lots but came through that okay. But no, I had never realized that one could have parking spot rage.
It began easy enough. I was out of mouth wash, so I parked next to Rite Aid to do a quick run. When I came out of the mega shop, I saw IT.
Parked next to my gas burning chariot was a grey mini van with a plate that read AAS MOM. It was parked on the two white lines that separated its space from my space. As I got to my car, I saw that it was impossible for me to get into my car on the drivers' side. Not even Barbie was thin enough.
‘SHIT!' I exclaimed loudly and walked around to the passenger side. On the passenger side was a little garden with tough prickly bushes, the kind of bushes that thrive in a carbon emissions environment.
After charging through the bushes, I scooted into the passenger side, plopped my rear end onto the drivers' seat and pulled my legs over the gear shift. Fortunately, I was flexible to bring my legs under the steering wheel. I had taken a yoga class the night before, and yoga had been a positive experience for once.
However, the parking lot was not a positive experience. I wanted to wait around for AA's Mom and tell her what a dipshit parker she was, but I didn't know how long AA's Mom would be shopping. Maybe AA's Mom was really fat–-hence she needed the extra space on her drivers' side. How many children was AA anyway? Was AA short for one name, two names, or a representation of many? I decided not to wait around to find out. I had better things to do.