This world is full of scary people. Anyone who’s ever watched Rock of Love on VH-1 knows that. I mean, just the STDs on that show alone could probably wipe out the entire population of North America. And Europe.
But even more frightening than a gaggle of illiterate pole workers trying to win the heart of Bret Michaels are the people I have to deal with on a daily basis. People so reckless, so dangerous, that I feel my life is in constant peril whenever I’m near them. Like true sociopaths, they have no fear. No remorse. No knowledge of their surroundings. Instead, they’re drunk on freedom, high on caffeine and in a really, really big, damn hurry to get to the half-yearly sale at Nordstrom.
They’re the mothers in my preschool’s parking lot.
Each morning as I’m walking back to my car after dropping off Jack, I find myself the near victim of a ruthless hit-and-run when I have to dive out of the way to avoid a harried woman gabbing away on her cellphone while she zooms past me in her luxury SUV. Last week I was almost sideswiped by a tennis skirt in a Land Rover. The week before it was yoga pants in an Escalade. And today I was nearly nailed by a merciless miniskirt in a minivan.
I’m destined to become preschool roadkill.
Of course, I understand why these mothers are in such a hurry. I totally do. With only four hours to themselves while their kids are in school, they don’t want to waste a single minute of their precious time. No, they want to get to where they’re going and they want to get there now. And all I am is just one more annoying obstacle standing in their way. (Albeit an annoying obstacle holding up both of her middle fingers and screaming, “Slow the f*#k down, you crazy nutjob! I don’t want to die today! Not before I’ve had a mani/pedi!”)
So starting tomorrow, I’m going to wear a bright, orange safety vest and a giant, pink cowboy hat whenever I’m walking through the parking lot. Of course, I don’t think it’ll make the mothers actually stop their cars for me. But they might slow down a little to make fun of my outfit.
(Note: Please excuse any typos as I had to write this on my iPhone while frantically peeling out of the school parking lot in my Volvo SUV. What? There’s a sale at Banana Republic.)