Mild Irritants

Yesterday, my patience was put to the test by a series of what can only be fairly described as mild irritants. Nobody committed any crimes, no one set out to intentionally foul my temper, in fact, none of the guilty parties were even vaguely aware of my existence. All of these mild irritants happened while I was behind the wheel of my car...

I was running a bit late, and I hate being late. I had been detained on the phone longer than expected, so I was in a small hurry to get to my next appointment. Many irritating things happen to people who find themselves in small hurries.

The first stop light I encounter after leaving my parking lot is usually backed up, but fortunately I was second in line behind what looked to be a female of millennial age who was driving a Honda Civic adorned with a Feel the Bern bumper sticker. When the light turned green, she sat immobile as a stone, head tilted down towards her lap where she was clearly engrossed in an impassioned text conversation with her BFF about the latest outrage being foisted upon her by the patriarchy. A full five seconds passed, which in this situation is akin to three dog years. I resisted deploying my horn. Surely, she would snap out of it any second. Two more seconds...three, her Olympian-level thumbs still raging at the very misogynistic air that we breathe! Finally, I stood on my horn, at precisely the same instant that several cars behind me had reached their limits. The flummoxed feminist was startled out of her texting tirade long enough to accelerate into the intersection, but not before she gave us all the universal sign of love and friendship.

Two stop lights later, I found myself third in the queue behind a motorcyclist and a driver of a green late model pickup truck with an empty gun rack in the window. This guy didn’t look like the cell phone type, so the prospects of a clean getaway from the light were promising. However, this particular guy had both windows open, (odd, since it was drizzling rain) and had that far away look of someone who is listening intently to someone speaking. His mouth was ajar, head tilted skyward focused on nothing. The wind shifted and I heard the distinct voice of Rush Limbaugh. The light flashed green, and pickup guy moved not an inch, transfixed by some eloquent point about Donald Trump’s latest three dimensional chess moves being made by the man with talent on loan from God. Luckily for me, before I even had a chance to reach for the horn, the motorcyclist began waving his hands wildly and screaming something obscene, which did the trick.

I was now finally on the interstate, picking up speed and seeking my customary spot in the center lane of the three that constitute 64 east from Short Pump to Richmond proper. As is sometimes the case, I soon encountered a fellow traveler who was not keeping up with the general flow of traffic...that is to say, he/she was going slower than me. I then did what I always do when I come up against those insufferable people who insist on doing the speed limit— I deftly swung over into the lane farthest to the left, which everyone knows is called, the passing lane, so named because it’s sole purpose in life is to facilitate drivers who want to pass their slower, less aware and less pressed for time Highway-mates. It was at this point in my interminable commute that I came upon the least mild of the aforementioned mild irritants...the slow poke in the passing lane. This particular one drove some sort of Volvo with one of those Coexist bumper stickers. The speed limit on this particular stretch of interstate 64 is 60 mph. However, anyone who actually goes 60 mph on this stretch of road runs an excellent chance of being killed. Even the losers in the far right lane, ( reserved for student drivers and octogenarians), go at least 65 here. Volvo-guy is chilling along at 58, oblivious. At this point, I’m seething, talking aloud to no one in particular...Dude, if you want me to Coexist with you, you can start by dragging your hippy dippy moonbeam self out of the freaking passing lane!!! Meanwhile, the guy who I thought was going too slow for the middle lane eventually pulls up beside me and gives me an arrogant side-eye as if to say, Good luck getting around Woodstock there. You shoulda stayed in your lane bub...

I was eleven minutes late for my appointment, but managed to bottle up all of the potential road rage. It’s stored somewhere in my subconscious, and will make a shocking appearance at some point in my future when I least expect. It’s going to be quite the fireworks display!