Vertical Menaces

Living with Ollie has added so many good things to my life-chief among them, a perfectly choreographed morning routine that we absolutely did not rehearse. Like me, she thrives on routine, so by now our mornings feel like a dance: familiar, fluid, and somehow perfectly in sync. No practice required.

As we cruise through our usual morning drive, down streets we could navigate blindfolded, we do what we always do: chat. I announce, dramatically, that I have no idea what I’m going to write about today. I spiral. I complain. I wonder aloud how other people have already written theirs…

Ollie talks me off the ledge, gently reassures me, and nudges me not to give up on my creativity before 8 a.m.

And then—enter Leo.

Right on cue, he realizes we’re almost at school, which means it is critical that he hears his new favorite song before we arrive. I watch Ollie’s posture stiffen ever so slightly. Her face tightens. She recovers instantly so Leo can’t see it—but I do. And I laugh. Not only has her playlist been hijacked, but it’s been hijacked by a Halloween song. A Halloween song we have listened to on every single ride for the past few weeks.

As the familiar tune starts playing, I jokingly tell her—fully aware it’ll make her laugh—“Honestly, this could be my slice today.” As we approach the school, the song winds down and I reach for my badge. This is where it all comes into focus.

Ollie taps the badge against the keypad. Beep. The metal gate groans dramatically, inching its way up like it’s annoyed we’re back again (same here boo). The bar lifts. Ollie releases the brake and lets gravity take the wheel as we roll down smoothly. So far, so good.

Then we reach the spot. Our spot. Almost the last parking space on the lot. The one guarded by those vertical menaces-the ones that make her heart race and my breathing noticeably shallow. Will she do it in one try today? Will we jokingly clap for her because it only took her two tries? Who knows. It’s been seven months of an ongoing feud between Ollie and those architectural bullies.

She pulls into the empty space across from ours to give herself room to back in. She inches dangerously close to the tables stacked against the wall—tables that have lived there since the dawn of the school year and have seen things. Once she’s mere inches from disaster, she reverses and starts turning the wheel left, carefully guiding the car between the obstacles. 

Her eyes move fast—rearview mirror, camera, left mirror, right mirror.

Nope. Too close to the right one. Forward we go.

This time she stops a little farther from the tables. Okay. New attempt. Reverse again. Same pattern. Mirrors. Camera. Mirrors.

In my mind, it could work if she just turns a little more left. But no. The spacing is off. The vibes are wrong. Forward again.

So here I am, living two truths at once, again: her perfectionism is deeply annoying—and incredibly funny.

She backs up again. This time, she listens to me. She turns the wheel before releasing the brake. A bold move. A game changer.

Slowly, carefully, she eases back—tiny adjustments left, tiny adjustments right—until the car is perfectly centered between those obnoxious barriers.

Leo and I hold our breath. Because it’s not enough to park. She has to go all the way back. To the bump. The trunk is basically kissing the wall.

I roll my eyes. I laugh. I turn to her and say,
“You know what? This is going to be my slice.”

We laugh, get out of the car, and move on to the next part of our routine—victorious, slightly unhinged, and right on time.

To those damn pillars, you deserve side-eye, not respect.