You’ve probably said it too, mumbled under your breath.

I hate SUVs. I hate SUVs.

You don’t even have had to witness a particular inconsiderate act of aggressive driving to just think about the size and amount of road space they demand. Really?  Is this size of vehicle necessary?

My general distaste towards this class of vehicle got personal the other night.  I was parking in my assigned slot at the east end of the reserved spots at the back of my new building.  I was trying to avoid touching the black behemoth GMC or Highlander on my left and not make contact with the monster green city dumpster on my right.

The dumpster was not pushed as far against the fence as it might have been, and I stopped before attempting to turn in.  I swung as wide on my approach as I could have and hesitated.  I remember thinking that maybe I should try to approach the turn again or try to find a space on the street in the front of my building.

But I thought the angle of approach was good enough, and, by the time I heard the scratching sound, it was too late.

After parking, I jumped out of my car and inspected the wide O-shaped design of green paint on my right rear door.  I felt awful, but there wasn’t much I could do.  I called a few girlfriends hoping they would get me to laugh or, somehow, to feel better.

One friend tried to help me put things into perspective.  She asked, “Did you actually scratch the surface and hit metal, or did you just pick up paint from the dumpster? Try scratching the paint off.”

The next day, I took my floor-washing bucket, filled with mild dish soap and a couple of hearty sponges down my back stairs.  I ran a soaked sponge over the big “O.”  Not a speck of paint came off.  Then I ran my thumbnail over the swatch of door streaked with green paint; slowly at first, then more briskly.  I noticed the paint cake up behind my thumbnail. Then I wiped the silver metal door down with soapy water.

After a while, rubbing my nail against the door, the green paint came off.  I couldn’t see any deep gouges that could invite rust.  After twenty minutes of scratching the paint-flecked section of the door then rinsing the area, it looked like I had lifted all the evidence of the contact.

What was I supposed to learn from this?  To stop completely when I hesitate? To consider getting a smaller, more city friendly car? Whenever I do something that results in something unexpected, I assume that the lesson contained in the experience has something to do with a failing of mine.

Then I recalled playing stickball on Winston Drive when I was a kid.  I recalled the feeling of freedom and liberation I experienced when I felt I had not made a good effort and the other kids agreed that my turn could be “done over.”  Repeated.

We all invoked the law of Do Overs for each other from time to time.  It felt good to get a second chance, to start with a clean slate.

This was a better feeling than assuming the most important lesson in the experience was about a flaw in me.  A better lesson to take from the incident is about being grateful for second chances.  We can give them to ourselves all the time.

Having a paint-free car door after a parking challenge, starting with a clean slate after anything doesn’t turn out as planned, is no small thing.