The Parking Lot Princess

It’s a calm morning at the credit union — birds singing, sunlight glinting off windshields, my faith in humanity holding steady at a cautious 52%. I pull into that awkward, one-and-a-half-wide end spot — the kind that looks like it was designed by someone who’s only ever parked golf carts.

I park neatly to one side, hugging the curb and leaving enough space for a motorcycle if one happens to show up. Because that’s what considerate people do — we plan ahead and avoid making strangers hate us.

Enter: The Parking Lot Princess.

A white Toyota Camry swoops in from nowhere, locks onto that half-space like a heat-seeking missile of bad judgment, and slides in with the grace of a drunk shopping cart. Her front tire climbs the curb. Her mirror’s practically spooning mine. I’m frozen in disbelief, staring at this spatial disaster like it’s performance art titled “Entitlement in Motion.”

I walk around the back of my truck, just standing there, slack-jawed, trying to understand the physics of it all. And then — she gets out.

She actually gets out, turns, sees me standing there clearly mid-WTF, and says —

“Sorry! I’m just in a hurry. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment!”

Ah. Of course. The sacred excuse of the chronically oblivious. Clearly, parking etiquette is suspended in cases of mild inconvenience.

I open my mouth, but no words come out — mostly because my brain is still rebooting. She’s already power-walking away, purse flapping, ponytail bouncing, conscience unbothered. Meanwhile, I’m left conducting a full risk assessment of my spine.

Because now, the only way into my truck is acrobatics.

I’m climbing the curb like a mountain goat, trying to wedge myself through a six-inch gap that would make a yoga instructor weep. One knee on the frame, one foot in the air, muttering prayers to the god of lumbar support. Somewhere, a chiropractor just felt a disturbance in the force.

By the time I’m seated, she’s vanished into the building, probably telling the receptionist how “tight” the parking is out there.

Diagnosis (Case Notes):

• Acute Urgency Syndrome with secondary Delusions of Spatial Competence.
• Chronic resistance to walking more than twelve steps.
• Root cause: lifetime subscription to “I’ll only be a minute.”

Recommended Treatment:

• One tow truck, two orange cones, and a week of mindfulness practice in a crowded Target lot.
• Daily mantra: “Other people exist.”
• Write “I will not weaponize my Camry” fifty times.

Moral of the Story:

If spatial awareness and common sense were contagious, she’d still test negative.

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