I pull into the second of two gas pumps at Costco. I turn off my car, get out, and walk toward the pump just as the car at the first tank pulls away. The woman behind me in her shiny black Lexus sticks her head out the window and says—more command than request—“Please pull forward.”
My car is already off. I’m already at the pump. So I say, “Sorry. No.”
She grumbles, pulls up to Tank #1, gets out of her luxury vehicle, looks me dead in the eye, and says, “You are a real bitch, you know that?”
Me: “OK.”
My son absolutely lost his mind that I said “OK.” He thinks I should’ve told her to relax. Hilarious.
Pre‑recovery me would’ve told her about herself—or at least defended why it made more sense for her to just pull in like a normal human. Unrecovered me would’ve felt obligated to move because she seemed more important, more worthy, more polished, more everything. More white, more thin, less sweaty, better dressed, coiffed (but lame) hair, spotless expensive car.
Meanwhile, I’m over here gassing up my pollen‑covered Subaru in cargo pants and a tank top, tattoos out, sweaty, whatever—wondering if I was wrong for not obliging. But my car was off. I was at the pump. This wasn’t me being difficult.
On sight, she might appear to be the “finer” human, right? Old me might’ve believed that and wanted to please or impress her. But she was out of line, imposing, and nasty for feeling entitled to speak to me that way. Clearly she felt wronged. I even checked in with Favorite, who said she might’ve pretended not to hear her—and if that didn’t work, she would’ve moved while feeling resentful and self-loathing.
This woman’s nastiness made me doubt myself. It is triggering AF to be bullied by this type. And in her mind, I bet she thinks I bullied her by saying no. Dude—pull your car around. It’s not a big deal. Bullying someone for not doing what you want is a big deal.
I feel sorry for the people who deal with her regularly. I’m guessing she’s highly vocal in her HOA, church, kids’ school—wherever she can flex her entitlement.
Even though I did nothing wrong, I’m still unnerved. The familiar irony of hostile aggression wrapped in an upright, polished appearance. Why do I still feel responsible for someone else’s abusive behavior? I didn’t make her say or do anything. That’s who she is.
Unrecovered me wants to excuse her and blame myself. And also tell her to go f*** herself.
I am a work in progress.
