My husband and I just returned from an extended road trip; a long one. There is so much to learn spending this much time together.
I think I’ll write a book.
The first chapter will be titled, “My dream of winnebego-ing across the country is dead and here’s why.”
I know, that’s a bit long.. forget it.
Maybe the first chapter will simply be titled “The differences between men and women.”
Boring but better.
The first story in that chapter will be devoted to parking..
There’s something about my husband and parking..
It’s like some deep, ingrained hunter-reflex takes over. I’ll call it the “Cheetah syndrome,” an intense, competitive combination of marking territory and claiming the best spot high up in a tree.. or in front of Walgreens.
Unlike Cheetahs though, my husband simply MUST back into spots.. he will never go in for the” kill” straight on. He explains (if you ask) that it is much safer to do it this way and yet time after time, I find myself in the passenger seat having to sheepishly (apologetically) wave a thank-you (sorry) to some poor schmucks who didn’t expect our vehicle to abruptly stop in front of them and suddenly, aggressively, start backing up.. aggressively in case they themselves had any designs on that same spot.
Then there’s the whole POINT of parking.
I mean to me, parking is all about walking..a good spot means less effort to get to the front door.
To my husband, it’s all about the spot itself-
and showcasing the skills involved in the parking process. Nothing else matters- and here’s how I know:
As we entered the lot of our hotel a few days ago, my husband spied a sliver of a spot between a beautiful Mercedes SUV and an island filled with landscaping. It was a great spot but unfortunately, the driver of the SUV did a horrible job parking and had his left tires over the dividing line.
“OOO,” I murmured, seeing my husband eying the spot, “we’re not going to fit in there..”
What unfolded next was about five minutes of back and forth jerking in my husband’s HUGE Ford F-150 as he tried to maneuver into position and slide in between the Mercedes and the concrete curb. I’ve birthed four kids so I know big things can fit into small spaces, but this was nuts. His parking assist was beeping like a Geiger counter at Chernobyl and I thought he’d pull a neck muscle as he craned around making sure we didn’t rip off the other car’s folded rear view mirror.
I tried to tell him there were other spots available, but at this point his pupils were fully dilated, there was sweat on his brow and I’m pretty sure his ears were probably ringing.
Finally, triumphantly, (mercifully) he put the truck into park.
My daughter casually looked out the right side and realizing she couldn’t open her door wide enough to get out, slid to the left side and bravely stepped into the hibiscus bush her boyfriend was straddling, grabbing his one arm that was extended out to her, while the other was wrapped around a tiny tree. I was able to squeeze out of the front passenger door but had to remove my hat and towel from my beach bag so I could extricate it as well.
what is the point of parking?
Clearly my husband, who was standing off in the distance admiring his “work,” would answer differently than me.
Coming up next:
Driving needs a whole book with chapters devoted to speeding, changing lanes, tail gating, talking on the phone, scanning for radio stations, using high beams as a tool of intimidation, eating fries with ketchup on them and my personal (un) favorite, cruise (un)control.