Let me give you a backstory.
I hate congested driving. Yes, I know Des Moines rush hours are actually nothing compared to you folk in big cities. I don’t care. This is what I have to deal with, or actually, don’t. Instead of engaging my already bad road rage, I leave work by 4 or 4:30, and I arrive at 7 or at 9.
Because I was overeager when I first start the job, and therefore needed to arrive by 7, I became acquainted with the cars of other morning people who also don’t merit parking spots from the company. One car in particular stuck out–a gunmetalish Pontiac TransAm with the ridiculous bird logo all over it and a license plate that says “Luckeeeeey.”
Ever since my first encounter with the douchemobile, I’ve imagined the pink-slip toting fool to be Meredith’s equivalent of The Todd. It’s honestly impossible to believe anyone else could drive this car. His tat might say “web” or “ed” or “art” or “mag” or something equivalent, but the impact is the same.
Due to my competitive road rage, I’ve started an imaginary feud with Sir Bananahammock. When I get to work before him, I consider it a win for the day. Like I want to brag to someone about beating The Todd to his stomping grounds, but no one I work with knows what I’m talking about. So I just smile to myself in my cube. In the dark.
ANYHOO. That quiet-but-satisfying battle reached a new level today when I arrived late, at 7:15. Apparently The Todd had a disheveled morning, because although he arrived early enough to get his coveted spot (right next to the stairs so we all have to check out his ride), he left something in the car. I’m assuming his access badge. As I pull up, iced coffee in hand and “It’s In The Morning” bumpin’ on the speakers, The Todd comes across the bridge. He’s wearing jeans and a stupid graphic-T that’s too small. So far, so good. Everything in its place.
Then he gets in his car. His car with suicide doors.
[Suicide doors. The things that only belong on Lamborghinis or whatever vehicle drunk Ashley lets her man get during a mid-life crisis.]
The Todd shut the door, pranced up the stairs two at a time, and was in the building before I had even processed what had happened.
It was like starting my Friday with a Big Foot sighting. But better than anything I had ever imagined. I was only slightly disappointed he didn’t fistpump the whole way across the bridge.