Parking Lot Rage

Why, oh why did I get here at 10 o'clock in the morning? Everyone gets here at 10 o'clock in the morning. And what do they do?

They take up all the parking spaces, that's what they do. Then I have to drive around and--

Ooh!

Nope. She's getting out of the car, not getting in. Make up your mind, stupid.

Still driving. Around in circles. That's right, minivan, I see you. Good luck finding a spot up there. You're just going to turn around at the dead end. Just like me. Minivan doesn't make you special. It makes you obsolete. And also larger than my mid-sized sedan, which can fit into any parking space with unsnobbish convenience. Boom. Roasted.

Spot!

No!

Prius!

Stupid cars. Can't even take up a normal amount of space.

Around. And around. Door...opening...YES!

Follow you, oh yes I will, like a really bad stalker. An obvious stalker. An obvious stalker who wants your parking space. I don't want pictures. Don't flatter yourself. Your baby isn't that cute.

And I creep. And I creep. And my car is begging to be in neutral. And I creep some more.

Mhmmm...that's a good looking space. Right next to the fire hydrant. You know. Just in case. Short distance to the door. Full sun to warm up my seats when I get back inside. Oh yeah, worth the wait.

WHAT?!

You were NOT waiting for that spot, Different Minivan From The Last One I Saw! I WAS! I followed her! I wasted precious gas on her! I may have insulted her family, but I have earned this space!

Yep, I wave to you too. Curl my lip in a snarky smile. And then I wish parasite infested mosquitoes to house their bloodsucking colonies inside your dashboard.

Back to the dead end. Turn around again. Wonder if anyone would notice if I just rammed my car into that little hatchback? Not a big dent, just enough to say, "I deserve a better parking space than you because I'm just an all around better person."

Ugh. Jeep. Just pulled in and snagged that woman walking out the front door. Why didn't I just sit in front of the door?! Now he's parked, and I'm still circling like a one-eyed goldfish.

(I had a one-eyed goldfish. He could only swim around the bowl in one direction. Such a sad life.)

OH! YES! YES I SEE YOU! YOU'RE PARKED RIGHT THERE? IN THE SPOT THAT I JUST PASSED? I WILL REVERSE TO CLAIM IT! DON'T YOU WORRY! YOU WEREN'T ACTUALLY WORRIED BECAUSE IT DOESN'T REALLY MATTER TO YOU WHERE I PARK! WHY AM I STILL YELLING?

Ok, I'm good now. Blinker is on. Left her enough room to back out of her space, but not enough to let someone else try to snag it. It is mine. My precious. Eww, never make that voice again. Ok, actually you can. Just not on a date. That's a good compromise.

Parked. Yes? Yes. Made it. Ha! Good luck, Stupid Car Just Entering The Parking Lot.

Oh, now you decide to leave. All of you. Wait. Really? You're all leaving? Right now? So they all get parking spaces? Just like that?

I hate you.

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Update: My post inspired this post

http://jamblinman.wordpress.com/2012/03/22/lets-play-a-game/

by my best friend Jeremy. It has nothing to do with parking lots.

Reasons My 16-Year-Old Self Hates Me

Some people in this world spend their adolescence in tortured angst. They revel in breaking the rules, breaking the norm, and breaking the bank. After all, the world is there solely to serve teenagers, and yet often leaves them high and dry in the unending agony of "You just don't understand."

I had my taste of this. I wrote my poetry. I cried myself to sleep. But mostly...

I was a stuck up prig.

My greatest joy was in doing the "right" thing, even though it meant being a painfully boring individual. No reckless driving, because I was afraid of dying in a fiery car crash of doom. No skipping class, because participation points can make or break your college acceptance, duh. No makeup (for a few more years), because only girls-who-don't-keep-their-legs-closed cake on such a facade of insecure beauty. (I also didn't have acne yet. Things changed quickly.)

This week, my past self slapped me in the face. Not literally, both because that is impossible due to the laws of physics and because my past self does not believe in using violence to solve problems. (My college self almost believed in it once. The girl majorly screwed over my friend and she deserved a good slap across her pretty little mouth. I was going to give it to her, too, but then her pretty little mouth began vomiting. I held her hair. I really am a disgustingly nice person.)

These are the reasons my former teenage self loathes every fiber in my body.

I went to the gym today...for the fourth time in a week. No, 16yo me is not jealous that I almost beat her mile time (booyah!). She is angry that I ran over two and a half miles of my own volition, not under pain of a failing grade. And that I enjoyed it.

I shared a beer sampler with a friend...in the afternoon. Or didn't you know? Beer is the devil's drink, suitable only for slackers and criminals.

The words out of my mouth...are not necessarily the most eloquent of expressions. In fact, they often consist of the same word used in noun, verb, and adjective form. It's such a versatile word, I feel that it deserves this place of honor in my vocabulary. My past self believed that such words sent you to the inner circles of Hell or worse-- hurt people's feelings. Note: I have not outgrown my 16yo self enough to utter these words in the presence of my father. Or to write them on the Internet. My sincerest apologies for this circuitous avoidance of said words, but I just can't do it.

I love eating fish...and even worse...

I love eating spinach. I felt very entitled to eat only the least healthy foods in the world. My friends and I singlehandedly supported the local Taco Time. (How is it possible that one chain fast food restaurant can have better brand name root beer than the others? Nevertheless, they do.) Those things catch up to you in the form of gagging sounds from the crowd during bikini season.

I'm not pregnant. Thank the Good Lord. But 16yo me decided that babies needed to be popping out of...somewhere...about the time college was done. That way, I could have an entire softball team by the age of 40. Commence crossing legs now...

Wrinkles. On my forehead. From raising my eyebrows. In surprise, disbelief, and horror. Basically, because people are stupid. So I blame all of you.

I've never met Hillary Clinton. Old dreams involved working for the State Department. Can't you see me as a CIA agent? I can hardly make it through a French lesson and I'm afraid of grocery stores. Back away, suicide bombers. This girl's got game.

I still can't compose a list with which I am decently satisfied. 16yo me thought that 23yo me should be able to win the Pulitzer Prize. I'm working on it, ok?

______________________

Any reasons your former, less enlightened selves hate who you've become?