Living Down to One's Image

I really try not to repeat stereotypes about men, because we all know they have about as much relationship to reality as dumb blonde jokes — ie., not much. But today….

I shop at several grocery stores because each one has the best deals on certain things, which means that every Sunday I make a quick circuit through town, finishing at the most expensive, which also has the best produce and butcher shop. Because it’s both good and expensive, I’m used to seeing fancy cars behaving badly in the parking lot, but this one was outrageous even by Expensive Market standards: a gigantic V-10 4x4, which to be fair would have taken up part of a second parking place even if the driver had been polite, had ben carefully positioned so that it took up four full parking places. The junction of the cab and the truck bed was centered on the point where the four marked places met: this was not just bad parking, it was bad parking on purpose.

And the thought immediately flitted through my mind. The driver is a small man. In every possible sense of the word.

I metaphorically slapped my hand. Maybe the guy needs a big truck for work — there’s certainly enough equipment in the back that it looks like he might. Maybe he’s actually 6 foot 10. Heck, maybe he's a she, and maybe I shouldn’t be so judgmental.

But when I came out of the store, the driver was getting into the truck. He was gray-haired, balding, and about 5 foot 2. He couldn’t see out the door’s window when he was standing on the ground reaching up to put his groceries in the (pristine and uncluttered) cab. And all I could think was, holy crap, doesn’t he know he’s a stereotype? At which point, he realizes I’m looking at him, smirks, adjusts his crotch, and climbs into the cab and drives away. The truck, by the way, needs a muffler. On all four tailpipes.

I guess that’s why the stereotypes exist.