Parking Shame

I swung into the parking space, hoping I was between the lines. To my horror, right in front of me on the sidewalk was a Hispanic laborer sitting on a crate, peacefully munching his sandwich on his lunch break. 

Oh shoot, I thought. Now I have an audience. Of course I'm going to make a complete fool of myself, and  . . . 

Then I had a Brené thought. I have shame about not being a competent driver. Acknowledge it. Admit it. 

I hopped out of the car, peering at the distance between myself and the next car. I turned to the sandwich muncher. "I'm too close, aren't I?" I asked him cheerfully, forcing myself to acknowledge my goof-up. 

He visibly brightened at being so addressed, and scrunched his face into the "Weeeeeeell, kinda" expression.

"One day," I said to him, "one day, I shall learn how to park," and slid back in, rearranging the vehicle with his helpful hand motions. I clambered out again, and observed my progress. "Much better! Thanks!" I beamed as I continued into the supermarket. 

He merrily waved.