I’m standing in the parking lot at Staples, waiting for some cars to get out of the way so I can walk to my Corolla, when someone honks at me to get out of the way so they can take the parking space I’m standing in front of.
More out of reflex than a desire to be helpful, I step aside. Then it sinks in — the person who honked at me is a thin, suntanned woman wearing a fur coat and driving a gleaming BMW.
Suddenly, I am filled with rage.
I dash to my car, hop into the driver’s seat, and quickly back out of my parking space hoping that I’m not too late to drive up behind Ms. BMW as she is walking up to the Staples entrance and give her a nice big honk of my own.
But she is still in her car, yammering away on her cell phone.
Proving that you can be immature at any age, I drive around so that I am in front of her and give her the one-finger salute. I’m not 100% sure she has seen me. For a few paranoid minutes driving down Route 9, I wonder whether she might be following me.
Later the same day, my 14-month old daughter wakes up from a nap and for a second looks like she doesn’t recognize me. My 7-year old asks me why the baby is crying.
“Maybe she had a bad dream,” I venture.
To which my 7-year old replies: “Maybe we’re her dream…”
Tags: New Jersey, Parenthood, Rage