Priorities

I took the kids to see Alice in Wonderland in 3-D today. The spaces in the parking lot were tight, so I pull M (my lovely red Lexus) into an end spot, next to a gray Yaris-looking hatchback. Not a lot of space, but enough for a skinny 7 year old and his not-quite-as-skinny mother to squeeze in and out.

We walked out of the movie and to the car. Knowing the spaces were tight, I opened the door first for my 7-year old, and then for myself. I opened it until it gently rested against the car next to me, and then stood behind the door so the little guy didn't push too hard against the other car.

Kids will be kids and they take their time. As I'm waiting patiently for him to get situated, I hear the pathetic whining of some 20-something. "Hey, that's my car guys!"

I'm thinking seriously he can't be talking to us. But he's talking to us. Me. The mom who graciously opened her doors for her children so that the little ones who don't understand the value of a car payment wouldn't damage the neighbor. At this point I'm thinking I should have just let the kid give it a good fling.

"Come on!" he whined again.

At this point, he's pissing me off. I mean, for crying out loud, he's driving a gray Yaris. Oh, sure, he paid someone to put some black flame stripe on the side . . . hate to tell him he's still driving a Yaris. And while I'm not one to pull economic rank, I'm driving a Lexus. If anyone should be offended, its me, that my beautiful red driving machine has to touch his gray piece of crap.*

"Look buddy," I said in my "I may be wearing high heels and toting two kids, but I'm not above taking your skinny ass to task" voice, "its barely touching. Why do you think I opened the doors for the kid myself? So they wouldn't cause any damage! Not a mark!"

He stood there, still staring at the microscopic contact point between our cars. His girlfriend came up to him and touched his arm. He didn't look at her. Continued to stare at his car. As we drove away, my son said she was still trying to talk to him, and he was still staring at his car.

Seriously, if at age 20 something, you're going to worry about door dings in the parking lot, you're going to have ulcers by the time you're 30 and dead by the time you're 40 from stress.

Maybe you ought to worry more about pissing off moms who are still jet-lagged, bordering on a migraine, and didn't get to go to Mastodon weekend. That's taking your life in your hands.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

* Other than not liking the way they drive, I have nothing personal against you if you drive a Yaris for economic reasons. If you could afford a Lexus and drive a Yaris because you like it, we need to have a talk.