L'Idiot

To my profound irritation and total lack of surprise, the vannies continue to work my last threadbare nerve like if they keep doing it, they're going to win something.

I seated myself promptly at our departure time and opened my book. Then I saw a hand-wringing figure approach the van. I recognized her as an occasional rider and also noticed that she left her car door open and headlights on.

Heads started straining to look out the window to diagnose the problem. And me? I make a big show of looking at my wristwatch to indicate my feelings of putupon-ness. I do this because I am a petty human being.

"I can't get the keys out," she says when she gets to the van.

I gnaw at the inside of my cheek and stare at my book to keep from laughing.

The van filled with advice for coaxing the keys from her vehicle:

"Give it a wiggle."

"Push the button. Does it have a button? These new vehicles have buttons and you need to push 'em."

"Is your car in 'park'"?

"Did you wiggle it?"

"You know you're lights are on."

I shouldn't poke fun. I know I've had problems getting the keys out of my car. Although, I'm sure the last time it happened to me the keys were made out of primary colored molded plastic and went to the silver Barbie Corvette convertible parked, not in my parent's garage, but under my canopy bed next to some Legos and an Easy Bake Oven.

The worst part, though? The worst part is that me and Ms. Master of All Things Exceedingly Complicated were wearing the same color scheme this morning. Yes, I'm dressed like an idiot.

Or rather, the idiots are dressing like me.