I’ve never been a fan of parking lots. I don’t know why, but ever since I was little, I’ve hated them. Probably because they’re one of those spots of concentrated stupidity. I’m even more afraid of them now than ever, to the point where I need someone with me when I’m in an unfamiliar parking lot (or I have to spend a good five minutes talking myself through it).
So when I walked out of the Jewel this morning, I was pretty okay. The Jewel parking lot and I go way back. We’re buddies. Right?
I stop, as one does, make sure there aren’t cars coming (this is a compulsive, check six to eight times habit). I see a lady in her Ford Escort coming up one of the aisles, and she’s got her signal on to make a right hand turn. About five feet after this turn is a stop sign. So I figure, between the turn and the stop sign, that I can step into the crosswalk, get across the road, and make it to the cars where I will be (relatively) safe (there is no safe place in a parking lot I hate them).
The lady comes to the stop sign when I’m in the middle of the crosswalk. But does she wait for me? No. No, she accelerates (and while there was probably a good three feet between me and her, oh my god my heart), and turns down the next aisle. Cue panic attack of “OH DEAR GOD I ALMOST GOT HIT BY A CAR I’M GOING TO DIE” and a pretty mad dash to the inside of the aisle (so I could walk between parked, not turned on, cannot hit me and kill me cars).
I reach my car, I’m exhausted, shaking, it’s bad news, and this lady. This lady gets out of her car that is parked one over from mine, and starts yelling about how she almost hit me and how dare I cross the street.
To which I replied, blank faced, in one of those pristine sitcom moments that the universe occasionally gives to me, “If you could have hit me, why did you pull forward?”
Then I got in my car and cried.
But I’m home now. And that was my morning adventure. I’m going to go back more cookies.