Parking

So I had to run to Albertson's a minute ago to purchase some cream and half-n-half (homemade ice cream tomorrow!). As anyone who has ever visited the Albertson's on 23rd and 39th in Salt Lake City has undoubtedly noted, the parking spaces are quite roomy, to the point of being palatial. You see, not only are the spaces themselves wide, but there are also, in lieu of the standard single yellow stripes, rather large buffer zones - six inches of asphalt enclosed by TWO yellow stripes. The practical upshot of this is that it is virtually impossible to park in such a manner as to obstruct the parking ability of another driver.

But as I'm sure you can guess, I wouldn't be writing this post if somebody hadn't managed to do exactly that.

I pulled into the parking lot and saw a pull-through spot right by the door I want to go in. (I have a thing for pull-through spots, because I hate backing up in parking lots, especially at night.) As I pulled in, I noticed that, gee, that car next to me is parked rather close, but didn't think much of it until I rolled up my windows, opened my door and attempted to get out.

With the aid of a handy ruler I found on my desk, I just ascertained that I am approximately 7" wide if I suck it in pretty hard. It took every bit of suck I could muster, as well as a contortionist routine that would do Cirque du Soleil proud, to get out of my door. Good heavens, I thought, these people really suck at parking. (My real thoughts were more colorful, and may even have included the French word for "shower", but I try to keep this blog family-friendly.)

The offending car, in case you were wondering, was a pearl-white BMW. I will refrain from observations involving the supposed ownership of any and all roadways by drivers of such vehicles, but will indulge myself so far as to say OF COURSE IT WAS A DANG BMW. (No offense to any of you who may happen to drive a BMW - if you have the good taste to be reading my blog, I'm sure you don't fail this badly at parking.)

So I went in and procured the sought-after dairy items, and returned to my car to find the owner of the BMW standing there staring at it while his wife returned their shopping cart. I walked past them (with a perfectly civil, nay, friendly greeting, I may add) and made quite a show of squeezing carefully into my car.

As I drove off, a note of bitter vindictiveness may have entered into my mind, and I may have hoped for an instant that their door was now slightly scratched or even dented, such unfortunate happening being no more than their due, but I'm sure this tacit admission can be our little secret.