To understand the collective consciousness of America, head to a nearby parking lot

Social psychologists could hit a research bonanza in any American parking lot.

I won’t even delve into cart corral use or lack thereof, or the puddles of sticky, dirty drinks people empty right where subsequent parkers plant their feet. There’s a long list of anonymous microaggressions that occur on these Wild West spans of asphalt, but these days I have laser focus on one thing: car dings.

Why? After many years of driving my old pal of an SUV, I reluctantly took the plunge and bought a new car. For a long list of reasons, it was time. And with that stressful purchase, an aggravation I had forgotten about resurfaced: Dings. Door dings. Whack.

Over the years, my old vehicle eventually picked up the scars of others’ recklessness, including actual scrapes and a taillight puncture I covered with translucent red tape. That rude perpetrator, who clearly didn’t know how to navigate the parking procedure, skedaddled without a trace. So, with that and various door smacks to my SUV, it got to the point where I didn’t worry as much about where I parked. What a free feeling.

Now, with a (temporarily) pristine car, I just can’t trust the mosh pit that is most parking lots. Kudos to Costco, though, with the wide berths of painted oval islands between every parking space. They understand how Uncle Fred and Aunt Dorothy just willy-nilly swing their doors wide open to the point of stripping the hinges and collecting paint samples of strangers’ cars.

There are bigger problems in this world, enormous ones, but I think most door dings represent the seeds of selfishness. They’re the scratchy, void-y, pock marks one can project to bigger uncaring streaks in some folks’ characters. Walk through any parking lot, and you will likely see multiple door whack transgressions on just about every car that’s over a year old. It’s as if we’ve all been through a violent, horizontal hailstorm.

And in any parking lot, you will also see newer cars or super-fancy collector models parked far away along the outer banks of the asphalt prairies. That’s my solution. I park in the distant slots and chalk it all up to a chance to get in extra steps. Not fun when it’s windy, cold or raining, but it’s the price of a dent-free lifestyle.

I’ve also noticed selfishness on the ding avoidance front. Some folks park their unblemished rides near storefronts or offices to take up two spaces. A huge no-no, especially when the spots they take are close to the destination and all the handicap slots are taken. Then there’s no chance for the grandpa with the heart condition/knee replacement to grab the next-best spot. Anticipatory courtesy does not seem to exist.

I remember decades ago comedian Rich Hall came up with “Sniglets,” which are words that do not exist but should. He said people who intentionally angle across two parking slots are “Diaganerds.” Perfect. But we need a term for people who swing their car doors out to the point of denting and scratching others’ vehicles, because clearly, these folks outnumber the occasional Diaganerd.

Doorgashers? Pockjocks? Dimpletons?

This cautious, edge-of-the-lot phase of mine will probably last about a year. That means Trader Joe’s parking anxiety, which is a given for any shopper with any kind of car, could not be higher. TJ’s spatial philosophy is a 180 from Costco’s. Their spots are limited, narrow, and offer zero nearby cart corrals. There’s even a sneaky slope, which helps Uncle Fred swing his door open with extra velocity.

It’s this very lot where my unanswered, existential question percolates: Are the windmill cookies and fig butter worth it? Ding, ding, ding. Maybe.

Reach Denise Snodell at stripmalltree@gmail.com.