When my teenage daughter earned her license, I turned my car over to her. I gave myself a year-long, car-free challenge, partly to save money and partly to see if I could do it.

I wasn’t a martyr. When errands and appointments demanded a car, I drove. My daughter wasn’t selfish; she was grateful and willing to share when needed. I walked more, I thought more, I enjoyed that time … until summer came and I wanted to play more.

When it comes to romance, absence may make the heart grow fonder, but this was definitely true in the case of the car. When I finally purchased a vehicle, it was love at first drive. My only disappointment was the color — black. But all the available cars were black, so I accepted this as no big deal. That is until I parked my new car in a parking lot.

Do you know how many compact SUVs there are? Do you know that all of them seem to be black? Whenever I search for my parked car, I silently dream of owning an outlandishly colored vehicle. Something that would be easy to find. I almost jumped into the wrong car last week at Aldi. My mistake was only prevented by a dog yapping at me through the window.

My family teases me that this is a sign of aging, but I know I have always struggled with car identification, particularly when I’m distracted.

There was a time when the panacea for a dreary day was to walk around Ames department store. It was a way to get out of the house and there was always something to look at. If you were a young mother, you could plop the carrier in the cart and walk through the aisles, lulling your child to sleep. This is exactly what I did one Sunday afternoon. And I wasn’t the only one, at least two other mothers were doing the same thing. We nodded at each other as we passed in the aisles. All was blissful until it was time to check out. As the motion of the cart stopped, the motion of the baby began.

Of course, there was a line. In front of me was a sympathetic older woman. As my daughter began to fuss, she smiled and said, “I think naptime is over.”

Sheepishly, I agreed.

The restlessness erupted into a cry. I quickly popped the pacifier into her mouth. She spit it out just as quickly — a zooming projectile that ricocheted off the candy display, landing at the feet of the young man behind me. I smiled weakly as I picked it up.

He did not smile back.

Evoking the 10-second rule, I wiped off the nuk and stuck it back in my daughter’s mouth. I held it there, hoping it wouldn’t be rejected. No such luck. From behind me came a snort of irritation.

There was nothing to do but unsnap the carrier and pick her up. Finally, at the checkout, I juggled baby, wallet, and purchase, miraculously not dropping any of them. As I paused to place my girl back in her carrier, I glanced back. The look of disgust I received in return made me want to slink out to the car, which is exactly what I did.

I opened the rear door, placed the baby carrier in the base, then shut the door and got in the driver’s seat. I placed the key in the ignition. It wouldn’t turn. I moved the steering wheel. The key still wouldn’t turn. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. In the back seat, the cranky sounds grew.

I looked around for help. No one was there.

Wait, there was someone: Disdainful Man.

Desperately, I approached him. He backed away.

I begged him just to look. The wails in the back seat grew louder.

I handed him the key.

Disgustedly he looked at his hand, then looked at the car. “This is a Ford key; the car is a Toyota.” He slammed the key back in my hand and walked away.

Chastised, I slipped my daughter out of the backseat, gathered my things, and got into my own car which was parked in the next space.

I’ve often wondered what the other mother would’ve thought if she had found us sitting in her vehicle. On the other hand, it has never been a mystery what the guy thought about the whole encounter.