Pure Walnut Creek

I was on my lunch break today, trying, as usual, desperately to squeeze two hours worth of things to do into an hour. I had to make it to Macy’s to get my latest fix of fashion from the new winter line of Jessica Simpson shoes. My weight may go up and down faster than kid on a po-go stick, but my shoes will never fail me.

So there I was, driving along, singing a happy Christmas tune from a not-to-cheesy mix I had picked up, and then it happens. Somewhere between Pleasant Hill and Walnut Creek I crossed an invisible line and entered the alternate world of “The Real Housewives of Walnut Creek.”

Suddenly I halted to a stop in an intersection as the local phenomenon of the Mercedes driving woman continued on her rush to the nearest Starbuck’s without a second thought to the sign posted reading “Keep intersection clear.” I had forgotten that in this alternate world the need for caffeine highly surpasses the need for recognition of other motorists. Thank goodness she reminded me.

Shaking off the near collision, I continue on my journey to the Oz of Walnut Creek, Broadway Plaza. My next hurdle looms large and great in front of me…. Parking. Hesitantly, yet determined, I enter the garage. Once again I find myself slamming on the breaks as a Corvette with a sales pitch for a license plate comes screaming down the ramp headed straight for the street without a look sideways. It is the least uncommon of the urban jungle, the male of the pack, the mid-life crisis man. Just in case I forgot what men that have been pampered by years of 500 count sheets and homemade excuses looks like, I was just reminded. Right then...

As I continue on my trek, I begin the ritual of circling the structure continuously in hopes of finding the rare occurrence of catching someone embarking on their journey back from outer space, otherwise known as Nordstrom’s. Like a heat seeking missile, my vision fades in and out from tunnel to wide angle with the reflexes of a trained connoisseur of parking spots. I watch every moving vestige of people. Are they coming? Are they going? Can I get around the monstrosity of a vehicle in front of me in time to snag it from some other hunter on the prowl?

Then, like a ray of light streaming down from heaven, I see a most extraordinary incident. A spot close to the elevator. Could it be? Could everyone else really have missed it? My trained cynicism at such a fortunate occurrence kicks in, I don’t know, something isn’t right. I drove up slow and cautiously. Hmm…

Then I see the answer. The SUV in the spot next to has crowded the “compact’ spot to the point where the only moving vehicle that could fit is a Vespa. I take a closer look and notice that is a Limited edition, 4X4 Sequoia. Decked out to the nines, this thing can climb mountains, pull a boat, run through the Amazon and explore the desert with ease and comfort. It is made to rough and tough with the best of them.

I look over the machine imagining the owner four wheeling through rugged terrain on their way backpacking in the Sierra’s, or pulling a boat out for fishing expedition on Lake Berryessa. Maybe even the ability to snowboard in Tahoe without the worry of chains. Then my eye falls to the license plate and I purse my lips in grim realization. “I’d rather be shopping at Nordstrom’s.” Wow, the irony is not lost on me at all.

See there would have been a justification for the elitist mentality of the vehicle, if maybe it was ever used for its intended use, as if the existence of such an enormous waste of space could have been defensible by the owner had it been used properly, but no. This vehicle satisfies no need other than to give a soccer mom the feeling of being something other than a soccer mom. It gleams and shines in the wintry sun looming large in review mirrors and formidable in oncoming traffic. It gets the message across of “I am my car and my car is me and we are saying get the hell out of our way.” In the alternate universe, anything other than a $60K vehicle is second class citizenry, and the first class lets you know it. Who says only men are trying to compensate with their vehicles?

Slowly I peel my eyes off the rolling ironical nuisance and continue looking for a spot. I pull behind a line of cars as we all wait for the inevitable fate of someone five cars in front waiting for one car to pull out so previously said car can get a spot. As I sit pondering the wasted time, mental energy and gas something dawns on me. I have become what I have been known to refer to as a “Pure Walnut Creek.” I have sat through death defying traffic and painful patrolling for parking while still trying to keep my anger in check, all in the name of fashion. The worlds have started to blend, and without knowing it, I have voluntarily succumbed to the lemming mentality. An acrid taste fills my mouth as the realization hits me full force. I have to get out of here…

I pull out of line and onto the street. Immediately the traffic is lighter as I am heading in the opposite direction of the suburban mecca. I watch in satisfaction as I am pulling away from those running to pay homage. Freedom has never felt so good, and silently I promise myself… If I ever find myself tempted to sacrifice my car to the god of material possession, while bleaching my hair blond and conveniently forgetting to do my eye-brows, I will pack it all in and head to Canada. I figure socialism should set me straight.