Feb 2, 2017 4 min read

That parking space was mine. It was so much mine that they could have painted my name on the pavement. But the woman in the big SUV stole it.

I was at a shopping center, a tight and narrow lot with few spaces. Cars were circling.

I was at the front of the line and saw a car pulling out of a space. I put on my blinker and waited. The coast was clear coming from the other direction; I had this.

Just as the car was backing out, a driver approached from the other direction. I know she saw me there, because I could see her: thirtyish woman in a little hat. But when the space freed up, she swung into it.

It was a sloppy parking job. She jumped out, pulled the brim of her stupid little cap down over her eyes, and ran down the sidewalk.

What the? Did she really just …?

My instinct was to jump out and run after her, but there was nowhere to park.

But what would I have said? I’ve thought about that in the days since. That moment held the beginnings of a road rage incident. They all start that way, don’t they – with a perceived slight, a selfish moment, a stolen opportunity. If I’d had the nerve, the confrontation would have gone something like this:

Me: Excuse me, but I was there first.

Her: I didn’t see you.

Me: OK, sorry.

I don’t like conflict. I can recall only one incident in my adult life in which I got into an argument with a stranger, and it was over a dress.

It happened at a store in Greenwich, Conn. I was shopping for a christening gown for my daughter. She was 18 months old, able to toddle up to the altar, and couldn’t wear a long gown.

I found a beautiful white, lacy floor-length dress. As I was at the counter paying, I mentioned to the worker that I was going to shorten the dress by about 6 inches.

“You can’t do that,” came a voice from behind me.

I turned around and faced a customer, a scowling woman about my age.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“I heard you say you’re going to cut the bottom off that dress,” she said, “You can’t do that. There’s lace on the bottom.”

“But I’m buying it,” I said. “After I pay here, I will own it.”

The customer took the dress from the counter, held it up to my face and said, “These dresses are not made to be cut off.”

Now, I’ve been a bridesmaid in many a wedding, and I know for a fact that frilly dresses are shortened all the time. I pulled the dress from this harpy’s hand.

“It’s a baptism dress for my daughter. I want it to be shorter,” I said, and then turned around to hand my credit card to the worker.

The woman wandered away, muttering something about disrespect for lace. She’s probably one of those people who think it’s illegal to cut the tags off the pillows you own.

At home, I took scissors to the dress and reattached the lace. I did not feel guilty. My daughter looked adorable in it. The dress is tucked away in a box, a memory of a beautiful event and a weird argument.

I did find a parking space at the shopping center that day. When I got out of my car, a young man spoke up.

“I saw her take that space,” he said. “It was yours.”

“I know,” I said.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Karma.”

Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.