Rage: The Road Kind

I’ve developed a trait of which I am not very proud:  Road Rage

I experienced my worse fit last week when, Incredible Hulk style, I morphed into the person that lays on their horn for a good solid minute as a result of being cut off in traffic moving 0.08 mph.  When I returned to my normal self I slowly removed my palms (both of them) from the steering wheel, looked around, and came to the uncomfortable realization that I was the person that laid on her horn for a good solid minute while in traffic moving 0.08 mph…with no.where.to.go.  So as punishment, I was forced to sit in shame amidst my fellow travelers for another 30 minutes.  Fail.

Yes, this episode took place during those three oh-so delicate days of the month when I’m, umm, not quite myself, but there’s more to it than that.  We spend a notable amount of alone time in our cars.   We listen to talk radio, we eat, we apply make-up, we sing.  Our cars are a bubble of solitude where we are cut off from the worries of the world.  In this bubble, we make all the rules.  We listen to what we want, we drive as fast as we want, we even say and do… whatever…we…want.  Up to and including shouting expletives (and blowing horns) at complete strangers.

As embarrassed as I was to realize I was that girl, I must admit it felt kinda good.  The years and years of effort I’ve placed toward putting on a happy face and biting my tongue, of not saying how I felt in any given moment.  All of the times I’ve never had the courage to say, “This isn’t right.”  “I don’t want to do that.” “That hurts.”  “You can’t say that to me.” “Go fuck yourself” has now manifested into this fit of rage toward complete strangers.

So the next time someone gives you the finger for driving slow in the fast lane or mouths curse words at you for not turning right on red, take pride in knowing you just gave a complete stranger a complimentary therapy session.  Thanks for paying it forward!