Ah, Bruce. Where are you when I need you?

In the last week, an odd form of courtesy has befallen me, and I don't like it one bit.  It involves parking, a thing I am very good at.

The first incident happened to me while I was parallel parking on a street just off the Marietta Square. Parking was at a premium, and I was elated when I found a largish spot between two parked cars. Or rather, a parked car and one, just in front of me, with a driver still in the car, having just completed what he apparently felt was a spectacularly good parking job and  had to pass his skills along to me.

As I maneuvered the rear of my car backward,  a silver haired driver sprang from his driver's seat like St. Nick and began waving and gesticulating as if he were guiding a 707 into its berth at O'Hare. When I turned the wheel, he pantomimed the same, shouting when he thought I had turned too far or not far enough.  A space I could have whisked into with no fanfare became a three act play with choreography, as I went forward and back, turn to the right, turn to the left, pause, begin again. Left alone, I would have been fine. With this parking aficionado, it took me forever to finally complete the job to his satisfaction.

The second incident, just this morning, involved the simplest of parking maneuvers, a straight back- out from a shopping center parking spot. This was not a particularly busy location, and I was unlikely to be swiped by passing cars.  Once again, silver haired and full of human kindness, this gentleman who had parked next to me jumped from his car and swooped in right behind my car. Presumably he couldn't hear my expletive as I nearly knee-capped him.  Waving and gesturing to indicate all was clear, he guided me back past the SUV on my other side, and got me into the stream of non-existant traffic with nary a dented fender.

What is this?  What have I done to attract the attention of these unwanted helpers?  Have I forgotten how to drive? Do I look befuddled?  I don't think so.  I don't do befuddled, and my children are still willing to ride with me without grabbing for the keys.  Is it the gray hair? Misplaced Southern manners? I'm not sure, but twice in a week? Something is afoot.

 I suggested to my family that maybe I should do a full McClain.  No, not John McClain (think Bruce Willis.)  I am talking Shirley.  Flame red spikey hair, lots of scarves and jewelry, plenty of make-up.
Scare the Bejesus out of these old guys who want to help a little old lady. It's not as bad as it was in Ireland where everyone calls gray haired women "Mother."  That is the definition of ego deflation.  But...you old goats, if I want parking help, I'll let you know, O.K? Maybe Bruce Willis' John McClain is a better model for me after all.