The passenger-side window rolled down and the septuagenarian driver barked at me something along the lines of, “Close the back hatch”.
Startled, I glanced in at the rear of the wagon. A large, long box was lying the full length and, just next to the rear door, a young hand and wrist reached out of the box.
I had hesitated just long enough for this glance and started uttering a response when the driver cut me off with an exasperated “Don’t worry about it.”
He stormed out of the car, slammed the hatch and shot me a loud, snide, “Thanks, Lady.”
I couldn’t have possibly reacted more quickly to his rudely delivered and unexpected instruction.
And it’s clear his behavior was boorish, at best.
So why does such treatment consistently feel like a reflection on me?
And why do I attract it in the first place?
Andrea needs to care less… Andrea needs to care less… Andrea needs to care less…