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My Bag of Crazy

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My husband says I’m “rough around the edges.”  My current shrink says my mind is in a state of transition, and I may be prone to emotional lability while my neurons sort themselves out.  My last shrink said, “the demons always come back for an encore performance before they finally exit the stage.”  My BFF says to lay off the PsychoMom stuff – there are scarier PsychoMoms than me, and some of them may be packing.

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So what do I think?  I’m the proverbial square peg in the round hole.  My head is like a crazy buffet.  Case in point: The Carpool Line Situation . . .

Let me set the stage.  A bunch of rich women (hereinafter referred to as idiot drones) go to pick up their kids in their $80K SUVs.  They are narcissistic, pampered, and blissfully oblivious to the world below them.  What could go wrong?

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This is where my Asperger’s kicks in.  Their line-up technique is inefficient.  They leave excessive gaps between cars, thereby minimizing the number of cars that can successfully dock and forcing the carpool line to extend 0.52 miles down the road.  By my calculations, if they would each pull forward, another 6.2 cars could fit into the pickup area.

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On a chilly, snow-covered day last week, one of the idiot drones created such a gap.  There was 4.72 feet behind her and 15.5 feet in front of her. Fortunately, my car is 15.16 feet long.  I parallel parked in a three-point maneuver that would have won a gold medal.

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With the last adjustment completed, I peeked in my rearview mirror.  The idiot drone’s arms were having a seizure, and her facial muscles were in spasm.  I turned around and shooed her back with my hands, hoping she would put her car in reverse and grace me with a few extra feet of space.  She shook her head.

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At that point, my Adjustment Disorder kicked in.  I did what anyone who escalates on a dime would do – I stepped out of my car and walked up to her window.  Her eyes bugged out a little, although it was hard to notice anything past her perfect makeup and pixie haircut.  She reluctantly rolled her window down, and I asked her to back up four feet.  She said, “no.”  Then she pointed out that if I arrived earlier, I wouldn’t have to fight for a space.  But she didn’t stop there.  In her high-pitched, snarky voice, she said, “And it’s illegal to park in a cross walk.”

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Double Crap!

I glanced at my car.  Crap!  The markings on the road were covered by snow, but she was right.  She may have just taken my Bishop, but I was still in the game.  Impulse control disorder sprinkled with Tourette’s syndrome to the rescue.  The words bypassed my filter and shot out of my mouth like little missiles.

“I’m just glad for your sake it’s not illegal to be a bitch.” 

My words hung in the frosty air between us.  I stomped back to my car and prayed the Carpool Gestapo didn’t catch me before my daughter jumped in the car.  The idiot drone refused to budge and so did I.

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As I sat in my car, my Anxiety Disorder and my Oppositional-Defiant Disorder engaged in a war.  I craved a Klonopin.  My pulse quickened while my eyes shifted between the carpool cop and the school’s front door.  Pedestrians shimmied past the front of my car.  My throat tightened on a lump of potential defeat.  Then my daughter emerged from the crowd.  I won.

Sherry – One, Idiot Drone – Zero.

When I reflect upon the situation with my psychoanalytic looking glass, I realize maybe I shouldn’t have squeezed into the spot.  Maybe I shouldn’t have stepped out of my car and confronted the pixie.  Maybe I shouldn’t have articulated the fact that she’s a female dog.  Maybe I should have moved once I became aware that I was blocking the crosswalk.

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And let her win?  Never.  Crazy trumps snob any and every day of the week.

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