Okay, so I’ve been notably absent, but y’all should read the 10 draft posts hanging out in the cloud just waiting for some organized person to come finish them. In one of the drafts I compare children to glade plug ins– that’s some funny stuff right there.
However, a recent parking lot experience forces me to set that to the side, next to the draft post about how my ADHD has been kicking my ass in a rather spectacular manner since, oh– August to talk about minivan rage.
I am a loud hater of malls, yet found myself forced into a trip as part of my yearly quest for non-bedazzled boots for the non-cankle suffering woman. My body is a veritable shrine to largess, but my ankles are rocking.
Late Saturday afternoon I’m doing the slow cruise into the parking lot, chatting with my mama.
If this was a week in the future, I would have expected insanity and rage that cohabitates with Merry ThanksgivingGluttonyChristmasConsumerism Day.
Prepared for it even.
Nothing prepared me for the Minivan driving, V-neck Sweater Guy. Nor had I bolstered up my douchebag shields before being subjected to his frenetic arm flapping and red bulging face.
Definitely nothing prepared me for those things just because I didn’t slam on breaks to let him cut me off.
After all, I very clearly had the right of way.
Okay, I maybe could have refrained from flipping him off. But it’s so personally aggravating to have to watch a grown-ass man have a temper tantrum over some shit that is his fault. And really, my quota for dealing with that crap overfloweth from spending so much time with children.
Okay, so I could have refrained from flipping him off. Maybe it was the minivan and the accompanying sense of entitlement? Perhaps I felt his rudeness to be a slight to my gender? Definitely it was that I just felt like a fuck you was the most appropriate response.
Something happened in this man’s life (day) long before me and my pesky following of driving rules. I’m going to wager that spending Saturday at the mall with his wife didn’t make this man’s top 10 list of fun things. But following up his frenetic arm motion with pulling into the on-coming lane of traffic…
I assume he was trying to teach me a lesson?
He kept going, narrowly missing a car that *gasp* had the nerve to be driving in its lane, trying to play chicken. Look, my car is nice and all, but it isn’t a 50k Honda Minivan. Want to hit my car and then explain to the cops exactly why you were in the wrong lane? Because I’ll be screaming OW, my neck from the stretcher.
Oh, I don’t think my victory in the Chicken Game made him happy AT ALL. Nor, I suppose, did my slowing down to 5 miles per hour. But really.
He proceeded to vroom past my car and park, completely blocking my exit. I stared at him, perplexed, then finally muttered, “I gotta go, Mom”, took off my seatbelt and opened my door.
Despite all of his penis posturing and grunting, I’m not about to be intimidated by a minivan driving, v-neck sweater-wearing guy rolling deep with his wifey in the mall parking lot.
He must have remembered a very important appointment that very instant, because before my feet could hit the asphalt he was pulling away.
Yup, that’s some balls, hunh?