As I pulled into the parking space, I noticed him tilting his head toward the window. I knew what he was doing. He was looking at my parking job – and judging it. Silently. So I asked my husband, “What are you looking at?”
Smart man that he is, he said, “Nothing.”
We climbed out of the car, and I told him that I knew exactly what he was looking at, that I’d told him I wouldn’t be able to park an SUV, that I was never going to get any better, that’s it’s just how it was. Then I looked at my Kia sitting firmly between the lines of the parking lot and exclaimed, “And look! It’s not even that bad! I mean…it’s been worse. I mean…I’m just saying…if you’re expecting me to turn into some parking genius, you are going to be disappointed.”
Mark just laughed. And so did I, and we walked into church.
No matter how hard I try, I really cannot park my small SUV straight inside a parking space. It’s too big and too curved for my eyes and brain and hands to make that happen. I’ve tried. I’ve failed. And I’m cool with that.
When it comes to parking my car, I’m like Popeye. I yam what I yam.
An inability to park is not really a spiritual issue (even in the church parking lot) and, unless I’m in one of those super annoying parking lots with tiny spaces and way too many big trucks, not likely to cause me much actual distress.
But as I was laughing to myself about my rant to Mark about my [lack of] parking skills, I started thinking about how often I pull a Popeye about other parts of my life.