I really don't have much to write about. It's not that I wasn't productive today, or that if pressed I couldn't come up with some fun memory to share. It's that I am feeling petty and small, and am still feeling resentment over the scene I happened upon when I left work today.
I test drove many cars when I was looking for a replacement car a few years ago. We knew that the man was going to be overseas for at least a year (we didn't know it would be so much longer), and that it was a good idea for me to have a brand new vehicle with a fabulous warranty in case something went wrong while he wasn't around to help me with auto maintenance. When I chose my little blue car, everything about that decision was deliberate, from how much fun it was to drive, to how compact it was. I was spending a lot of time on the peninsula of old town Charleston, on narrow cobblestone streets designed to accommodate horse carriages, and in parking garages with tight turns and skinny parking spots. I bought my car specifically to fit in those parking garages.
I've already gotten my warning ticket from the two hour parking all around old town Fort Collins. Technically, I've gotten a first ticket twice, because I didn't get my license tag updated until after the first time, while I waited to get a CU alumni plate. Today I decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and I skipped the free parking in favor of the garage, so I didn't have to watch the clock and go move my car at the two hour point of our sales meeting. I was a good citizen, and adjusted my car carefully, fitting exactly between the lines, so the van I parked next to could get into his/her car without a struggle. I came back four hours later, to find this:
Not that he heard me, but my out-loud-to-no-one reaction was, and I quote, "Thanks a lot, asswipe. How the hell am I going to get in now, with an injured back?" I absolutely could not get in when I opened my door to test it. I had to go to the passenger side (where there was plenty of room between me and the aforementioned van). I moved the seat all the way back, kicked my shoes off and dumped them on the driver's side floor. I struggled to capture my flared jeans leg, to pull my foot up and over the gear shift and emergency brake. I had to sit a minute, waiting for the back spasms to stop (and FYI, it was about 18 degrees in the parking garage at that time). I pulled the pins out of my hair, and took down my messy bun, because I knew I was too tall to fit between the center console and top of the little car with that extra inch or two sticking out of my head. I was right. It was a tight squeeze, and with limited mobility for both space in the little car and cramped muscles in my pelvic girdle, it took me several tries to land in the driver's seat. It still took careful manipulation to get my right foot over and around all the obstacles. I seriously considered driving home with my left foot only. I did not.
I know, it's a little thing, but the timing of it sucked enough to really tick me off. Maybe if it had been warmer, so that my injured muscles didn't freeze up and feel like they were going to shatter like a frozen Big Hunk candy bar whacked on a curb, I would have just laughed it off. Please, when you are parking in a little space like that, don't go out of your way to be a sloppy jerk.
Who knows, maybe it was a CSU grad who wanted to inconvenience me because I showed off my alumni pride.
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