One morning last week, as I walked up to my car, I noticed what appeared to be a small business card tucked under the edge of my driver’s side window. Must be a marketing piece for a small business, I thought, some kind of Joe Blow & Sons tuckpointing or auto glass replacement enterprise. But as I got closer, I saw a note written in block letters, some in caps, with a red Sharpie marker.

PAY ATTN: You’re taking up 2 spaces, Be considerate.

Obviously, this note was not written by a gang banger or twenty-something who, addicted to texting, had forgotten the proper use of contractions. Outwardly, this note was written by someone who, like me, was concerned with maintaining civility and thoughtfulness in a society hell bent on propagating “me-me-me” thinking. Here was a call for more consideration, for God’s sake.

I became uncomfortable then outraged, then doubting. I watched myself go through a range of emotions and thoughts, enough to have consumed several talk therapy sessions with a seasoned social worker.

I contemplated my conscious intention to be respectful of others. For the most part, I think I bring a rare level of empathy to my dealings in the world. I try to consider people’s feelings and not make comments that might be unkind, non-instructive or without positive purpose. It bothered me that someone perceived my behavior as suspect, as lacking in this particular way. Then I watched my thoughts get really tangled up as I tried to see myself in the note-writer’s shoes.

Imagine driving down a street late one cold February night and seeing something you find so objectionable you have to rifle through your belongings to find a writing tool and swatch of paper then get out of your cozy car to rip off a note. Who would do such a thing?

After spending a few seconds upset that a stranger may have perceived me as impolite or inconsiderate, I got mad. I felt unfairly judged. How did this other driver know how much space I had in front of my car when I parked almost a day earlier? The parking configuration of any street changes constantly. I studied where I had parked for several minutes. The car was about three feet in front of an alley and about 2 feet behind a tan Toyota. No way could another car have fit legally in the area even if I parked closer to the car in front of mine. I became fixated on corroborating my point of view and found myself almost aggressively questioning passersby, dog-walkers mostly, who were more concerned with whether their Lab or Corgi had a good BM.

“Another car couldn’t fit here?” I blurted out as I looked into their faces. “Am I right?”

The two nearest dog-walkers agreed and shook their heads. (At the impossibility of the parking feat, I am assuming.)

I continued dancing arm in arm with my inner rant for a few days until I remembered the small pad of Post-It notes I carry in my car’s console. I have turned indignant on many occasions – after being cut off by taxi drivers or too-tall SUVs – where I would jot down license plate numbers thinking I would report them to some sort of bad drivers hotline, I suppose. These pages of scribbled notes usually made it to the trash in about a week. Some behaviors we see in the world certainly merit reporting, but so often, our reactions to someone else’s behaviors are about something else.

While I was busy worrying about whether I was being disrespected, by obsessing, I had started treating time itself without respect. In leaving her Pay Attention note on my car window, this driver may have been reacting to something that had little to do with me. Or, even in the case that I could have been more space conscious in how I parked, the worse possible consequence for this driver was that she had to park a half block away; a minor inconvenience. Rushing to claim victimhood and puffing up with righteous indignation is unproductive. It’s actually disrespectful to yourself and to time.

Sometimes life leads you to the perfect experience for reminding you what kind of person you want to be (and don’t want to be) — and that’s no small thing.