Dear World: You Cannot Park on My Emotional Lawn

Eventually in life, you start to mind

Sharing, like pooping and forgetting to cut the tags off your shirt, is one of those things we all do. It’s a pinnacle of Western society. It’s a rule as serious as thou shall not murder thy Instacart delivery person when they bring you bag of frozen chicken instead of package of fresh. (This happened to me the other day. You know you’re 40 when that puts you in a bad mood.)

Sharing is in our culture’s DNA.

You share your ideas.

You share your food.

You share your photos.

You share your life.

And, if you are the enchanting woman I had the grand fortune of meeting last Saturday night, you also share 876 photos of creepy stuffed racoons that are supposed to look like taxidermy but—plot twist—are actually made from alpaca hair.

I love America.

(At one point I even excused myself to go to the bathroom as a way of breaking up this hellish encounter, and after waiting a solid 10 minutes—which is like 10 hours in public bathroom time—came back only to discover I had greatly underestimated her resolve. “Oh, I didn’t show you these ones yet!”)

There is, however, a limit to this whole “sharing is caring” thing. And, I fear I have reached mine.

I knew I had reached it because yesterday, I suddenly got very mad. Irrationally mad. Maybe being mad is a 40-year-old thing, too. But, as soon as I saw it, I knew that “Smashley,” my alter ego I first discovered when I once threw a Sorry board game across the room at age 7, would soon be arriving.

And all it took was one pickup truck.

I say “pickup truck” because here in the American countryside where I am currently renovating an 1800s farmhouse because I am a masochistic psychopath, pickup trucks are the hot dogs of New York: slightly greasy, inexplicably adored by locals, and always make you wonder what’s inside.

This pickup truck was no different. I gaped out the window at it, parked across the road, cursing the way you might expect me to if, say, aliens landed on my lawn and proceeded to play beer pong.

I had had it.

“Hey—are you parking there?” I yelled incredulously from the front porch. This was, of course, after I had already made a big show of marching outside onto the porch, in the pitch black of winter, with hip cocked, judgy attitude activated, flicking on the big porch light in dramatic fashion in order to communicate in the universal language of porch yellers everywhere: LOOK, MY PORCH LIGHT IS NOW ON! THIS IS A SIGN! YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE! I WILL EAT YOUR UNBORN CHILDREN. (And if you keep it up, I will have no choice but to slither back into the house with my tail between my legs and watch you bitterly from the window for the next two hours.)

The people inside the pickup truck had been idling across the road for some time, just testing my middle-aged nerves. Their headlights were on, but the engine was off. Are they doing drugs?! I think. Every time I see anyone these days I think they are doing drugs. But then I watch in horror, as if in slow motion, as these unbelievable sea urchins proceed to get out of the pickup truck. And then shuffle around. And then push the lock button—“beep beep.” And then start to wander off, as if they are leaving their vehicle there.

Now, a moment to clarify: unlike living in the city where cars freely litter the sides of roads like cockroaches, here in the country, if you park on the side of the road, you aren’t parking on the side of the road: you’re parking on someone’s lawn.

In fact, you are parking on my lawn.

I own the field across the road.

And, turns out?

One thing I have discovered about being 40 is that sharing becomes less of a moral imperative, and more of a moral outrage.

“Um, yes, we were going to park here???” a voice yells back at me through the dark. To my surprise, however, it is not some butter-soaked Bonanza-loving blowhard, but rather, a woman.

And, you know, I could have been more elegant about what I said next. I really could have. Could have been more charitable. Or, at least put on a kind face.

Instead, I barked this: “That’s my property.”

As soon as I say it, I realize I have just blurted out, “But, those are my toys!” I hate how it sounds in my mouth. “That’s private property,” might have been more eloquent, but I am unpracticed.

“Oh, we’re very sorry,” she calls sheepishly in response.

“Well, where are you going?” I soften, experiencing a brief moment of weakness. This is typical of me, tempering myself. I feel badly for saying the whole “my property” thing, as if I am a stubborn, stingy Marilla Cuthbert of a woman. But the thing is, it’s been weirdly happening a lot: ever since I knocked the old barn down, people seem to think that newly created space is the perfect public parking lot for them to sit and loiter and park their car and stare in my windows and do whatever it is they’re doing. And everytime I witness it, it feels like being stepped on.

Here’s a video of us knocking the barn down so you can get a sense of, errr, where this is:

This is not the kind of place where people park and walk. There is no where to walk to. No local businesses, not even so much as a post office—which is why it was oddly suspicious. While my five acres do sit at the edge of a small hamlet with residences if you go in that direction, there are also driveways.

It is then, however, that she says the one thing I was definitely not expecting:

“We’re going door-to-door inviting people to church.”

My first instinct is to think she’s joking. Nice sarcasm! Then, I realize she is serious.

Now, this would have normally been my cue to back off and share my toys. Instead, I felt the aggression of a thousand little cuts built up over time. You wouldn’t think you’d mind people randomly pulling over to eat a sandwich—or, in this case, spreading religion like an STD—but this is my point: eventually in life, you start to mind. There is something quietly violating about little presumptuous acts like these. While we might have played that game when we were younger—people will only like me to the extent that I can give to them—now, the script is different.

Now, I am only worried about me liking me.

And one of the things I’ve learned about liking yourself is that you must also have enough self-respect to tell the world what you don’t like. To say out loud, “no, that is not something I’ll accept.” It honors you. It protects you. “No” is self-defense.

“Please park elsewhere,” I call back. My own curtness surprises me.

No hesitation. No stammering. No long-winded apologies. Just: “no.”

They left immediately. I have no idea where they parked. Maybe by then they decided the people in this place were godawful (no pun intended?) and maybe they went to Denny’s for a lemonade.

Of course, I kept picturing the church people driving away saying HORRIBLE things about me: “Can you believe how rude she was? Jeez! Not like we were hurting anything!” And then hours later, again: “Can you believe that lady??? What a jerk.”

But, it is better that they have the negative opinion of you, rather than you having one of yourself.

Because when you’re a middle-aged woman who’s spent the last twenty years being pummelled by all of the giving and sharing and smiling you’re expected to do, eventually your alter-ego will take over. Eventually they will come in and smash the place. Eventually, they will put the pleasantries aside.

And eventually they will walk out onto your metaphorical porch.

And they will flick on the porch light.

And they will cock their hip.

And they will yell to the world:

THE PORCH LIGHT IS NOW ON! THIS IS A SIGN! YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE. I WILL EAT YOUR CHURCH PAMPHLETS.

Or, your 876 photos of creepy stuffed racoons, whichever comes first.