My first full day back in the US, my husband stayed home from work so we could go to lunch together. I drove my car since it had been a long time since I had been behind the wheel of my own vehicle. I was feeling as though I had good parking karma as a car was pulling out right in front of me in a primo spot near the café. As I moved to turn into it, a driver coming from the wrong direction (these were diagonal spots for those going in my direction) held up his heavily muscled arm and shot me the bird as he nearly hit me, zipping into the recently vacated parking spot with his oversized truck. He actually gave me the finger and practically grazed my front end!
I suppose he presumed his muscle head t-shirt rolled up above his bulging biceps gave him the right to do that, as in he could beat me up. Or maybe it was his oversized truck that has absolutely no practical purpose in the City of Denver and contributes to our reliance on foreign oil that made him feel entitled since his rig was bigger than my sedan and he could crush me. (For places where an enormous pickup truck is necessary see photo above of cow walking down the street in Costa Rica. They graze freely. I’m sure a rancher would love a big truck to bring hay to his ranch, if any were to be had. I doubt hay had been in back of said Biceps Boy’s pickup truck.)
But there may have been a problem with Biceps Boy and his astounding fitness level as gauged by his enormous upper body. I wonder if he had frog legs and perhaps could not obey the law and drive halfway around the block to park and walk to the restaurant. Maybe he really needed that spot. Maybe he didn’t have time to work out his lower body so it had atrophied. In that case, I feel sorry for him. Maybe they have handicapped stickers for guys who overwork their beach muscles and neglect their walking muscles.
Whatever the reason, I assumed he had completed his shifty maneuver, but I had misjudged him. Since he came from the wrong direction he needed to straighten out his truck. As I was passing, he slammed his monster into reverse and attempted to ram into my car, the side my husband was sitting in. Biceps Boy was actually going to smash my husband’s pelvis to prove that the parking space was his damn parking space. I temporarily froze and honked, a sound I hadn’t heard for 32 days so it shocked me. Regaining my senses, since he kept backing up and it appeared he was about to jump down from his now open driver’s side car door, I sped up and went halfway around the block myself where there were plenty of spots and a whopping 30 second walk to the café.
I did a quick body scan and realized I wasn’t angry. The tranquilo button had worked. You see, I had tried to figure out a way to maintain the feeling of tranquility that came over me after the first week in Samara, Costa Rica and rested in my bones by the end of the trip. So I decided I would mentally install a tranquilo button in my brain and push it when I was about to lose my tranquility for whatever reason. I was not about to let Biceps Boy’s problem and anger become my problem and anger. Why should I care that he was a jackass? I’m not married to him, in fact, I’m not married to a jackass at all. I have a wonderful husband and family. So I forgot about him until I decided to write about him today as a comparison to my more contemplative mode beginning March 1st.
I’m determined to keep the tranquilo button attached and active. So far, so good. In some ways, too good. I was 20 minutes late picking my son up from school. Meeting times in Costa Rica were mas o menos, more or less. A little parking space rage had not made me into an angry person. Pura vida I whispered as a blessing to Biceps Boy.