On the other hand, when I don’t have a day and I try to cram my car into the gap as fiercely as my butt into my pants, there are always witnesses to this humiliating indolence. Random pedestrians are still acceptable. Worse is the car behind me, whose driver is impatiently drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, as if he would like to finally pass. My psyche has managed two puberty and the direct election of the president, but it doesn’t give this level anymore. And so I drive away, regretting not being a cuttlefish to leave an inky mist in my wake.
Parking in shopping center garages is usually easy, the barrier is lifted very willingly. However, different rules apply at the exit. I fumble with the ticket reader in front of my nose, but to no avail. I try to change the angle, oops, the ticket falls out of my hand! But I don’t have enough space to open the door. More precisely, I don’t have enough space to get out of the car with all the accessories. I gesture to the driver behind me that I need to back up, he passes the information on. But you know the silent mail game. At the end of the queue, instead of “Backing up. Glory!” the drivers scold: “Reverse, cow!” After a short jostling in the line of cars behind me, I finally manage to get out of the door.
I would like to be a sepia again or at least a seductive long-legged twentysomething who forgives a man absolutely everything. But I’m 50, and farsighted, so I need glasses to find mine in a pile of cards on the floor. My glasses are in my bag and guess where the bag is. I go around the car, open the trunk and dive into its bowels. For a while, I toy with the idea of crawling into it and closing the lid behind me. But I’m afraid that no one would be looking for me, so my background has to face the impatient glances from the cars behind me. I should enjoy it, I think the last time men stared impatiently at my ass was in the last century. But this is not the case. So I quickly fish out the glasses, find the ticket, and the barrier finally lifts. Many cars are honking their horns as they leave the garage, but through the dark windows of the cars I can’t see exactly what the frantic hand movement means. Maybe they are waving at me? Oh, they are nice gentlemen! It’s almost like I’m a hot twenty-something who forgives men for absolutely everything.
