For as long as I can remember, I've been witness to the phenomenon we call road rage. Why call it a phenomenon, you ask? It's simple. The experience of driving has the ability to make even the most meek, soft-spoken, good-natured person scream heinous obscenities at some jerk as they mercilessly pound on the steering wheel. It doesn't really matter if you know the object of your ire can't hear a word you're saying, nor does it that you've just used words that would make a sailor blush. What matters is that, after the hissy fit you just threw... you feel better!
I came to learn road rage from my father. While generally a good-natured fella, his temper is prone to excitability, and the many trials and tribulations of the road only exacerbate it. Nary a day went by when I wasn't in the car with him, jamming out to classic rock and listening to him beseech the other fine users of the U.S. highway system to quit being idiots (although his preferred term was "c***sucker"). I am twenty-one years old now, and things haven't changed a bit. In all of my twenty-one years, however, I have only seen him extend his middle fingers once; both at the same time. I can't recall why or what it was about, but that isn't important. What is important is that the moral compass of my youth unwittingly demonstrated to me that even he was not above flipping the bird to the self-involved drivers on the road that dared to cross him, who did so at times quite literally. I remember being appalled and yet fascinated all at once by my dad's blatant display of anger and exasperation through the use of just two fingers which hold the power to say so much. If you can't be heard you can certainly be seen, right?
I'd like to be able to use the above preamble to illustrate how I have not inherited that particular personality trait from my illustrious father. I'd like to be able to tell the reader that I am a rock, that I am stoic in the face of deranged drivers who cut me off or don't let me into the left lane to get onto 635 when I so desperately need to. But... I can't say that. And if I did, not only would I be lying through my teeth, but you wouldn't have another Bridget blog to read in your boring downtime.
Those who live in the midwest, namely Kansas, namely Kansas City, understand - unless they are one of the myriad of awful drivers who ever sat behind a steering wheel. If that's the case then they're probably of the opinion that everyone else sucks anyway, because it's never their fault, right? The problem is that it's already a chore for the directionally-challenged to drive in Kansas City; it'd be a chore if every KC driver was the picture-perfect example of considerate and skillful driving. The scary truth, however, is that everyone within the greater Kansas City area probably has trouble leaving their driveways in an orderly fashion. I have no clue why so many people fail so epically at driving where I live, nor why I must deal with it. I mean, maybe I did something wrong in a past life and Karma has finally caught up to me. Perhaps I clubbed a baby seal, or cursed in the presence of a nun, or found a cuter nun and seduced her. Who knows?? But it definitely seems like I'm atoning, folks.
I have to say that one of my chief concerns is the Soccer Mom Phenomenon. This phenomenon occurs when you (the good, mostly law-abiding driver) are in the leftmost lane and going with the flow of traffic, maybe a wee bit faster. Maybe the speed limit is a posted sixty-five miles per hour and you are traveling at a solid seventy-one. Everything is going smoothly; you are singing along to the latest Britney Spears comeback song that you aren't quite willing to admit you actually like, no one has irked you since you set out on your journey, and all is well with the world... the planets seem to be aligned. But then, much to your dismay, something looms in your rear view. Ahh! It's a luxury SUV (insert Lexus/Acura/Cadillac/Infinity/BMW brand here) being driven by the most feared organism on the road - the storied Soccer Mom. She is on her cell phone screaming something to someone on the other end, holding some kind of overpriced, ice-blended coffee beverage in the other hand, and is steering with her knees. She has three children in the back seat all yelling and vying for her attention, probably demanding ice cream or a toy. She has to get her eight year-old to soccer practice, her daughter to piano lessons, and her infant son home to change his recently soiled diapers. She is going over ninety miles per hour, and she is out to get you. You glance into your rear view mirror in horror at how quickly she is gaining on your Focus. You attempt to suppress a terrified schoolgirl scream, looking frantically to the right for an opening to merge and be safely out of the way of this barreling, environmentally-detrimental, worth-more-than-your-house monstrosity... but no relief comes. Upon seeing your signal the douche to your right smiles and speeds up, thwarting your attempt to avert certain death. It is at this moment you conclude that not only are you probably going to die, but this d-bag is also almost certainly in cahoots with the deranged soccer mom behind you who is so close to your bumper you can feel her breathing down your neck. If you're a sissy, a tear might even come to your eye.
It is only after this debacle is over that you have time to gather your senses and realize that you managed to be out-driven by someone steering with their knees. You remember looking behind in wonderment, curious as to how in the world she was managing to pilot her ludicrously expensive vehicle with each hand being occupied with something other than the steering wheel. You slowly pull into the lot at your destination, put the car in park, and emit a string of obscenities that not even Robin Williams would utter. This is a prime example of PIRR, or Post-Incident Road Rage. It's a less common form, substantially fueled by the realization that only a miracle saved you from the presence of Saint Peter at the pearly gates and having to explain your sins. And it just makes you irate!
The most common form of road rage is what I like to call IRR, or Immediate Road Rage. This occurs when, for example, one is cut off on the highway when heading for an exit. The most common symptoms are uncontrollabe cursing, wild flailing of limbs, pounding/honking of the steering wheel, throwing up of the hands, or a combination of all. There might even be some stern lecturing or diatribes directed at the offending driver, who most often cannot hear these words. This lack of ability to hear the offended driver may be the top contributor to brain-dead or thoughtless driving. Then again, it may just be that the offending driver really is brain-dead (the most likely explanation). Either way, the manner in which one's anger is dealt with is often quite cleansing. I myself sometimes feel somewhat accomplished and self-satisfied upon the completion of an elaborate engineering of verbal vulgarities directed at a person who not only cannot hear what I'm saying, but whom I will most likely never meet or see ever again. Don't ask why; it's an enigma to us all.
Readers may be interested to know that road rage can also extend to the parking lot, growing pretty intense in such a place, in fact. Nothing is more infuriating than driving around the mall parking lot for twenty minutes in order to find any place to park, only to come across a newly vacated spot which some other lucky jerk has already taken advantage of. Or maybe you've been patiently waiting for someone to pull out of their space when some jackass quickly zips in and steals it from you, as if to say, "HA HA, sucker!" It's happened to me. I recall one particularly angering time when two parking spaces were available, one on my side of the row and one on the other side. They were arranged in such a way that I would have been able to pull through without having to back out when my shopping was finished. I'll be darned if some idiot jerk "meanie face" wasn't thinking the same on the other row. I know he saw me with my blinker on at least intending to get the spot on my side. So what does he do? He pulls all the way through to my side. The prognosis for this was going all the way around to the side he was originally on to get the parking space through which he had driven to steal mine. But by the time I arrived, the spot had already been taken! Needless to say, I was irked. I was furious. I was all of the synonyms for the opposite of happy you can think of off the top of your head or even look up in the thesaurus. I was all of them, and all at once. I threw up my hands and looked at him as if to say, "WTF?!" I even just might have mouthed the words which that acronym indicates. And then I might have loudly cursed as he smiled, shrugged his shoulders, stepped out of his Porsche SUV (Yes, his Porsche SUV) and clicked his remote to arm the alarm. I really am not sure I am able to actually do literary justice to the intensity with which I bellowed my atomic, weapons-grade version of the F-bomb upon seeing that man exit his vehicle with his smug grin headed for the mall entrance, no doubt with the intention of buying the most expensive clothing Nordstrom's had to offer and possibly attending a Homeowner's Association meeting at his gated community later that evening. I felt I was very close to doing something I might (not) regret later, such as keying his Porsche gas guzzler. Reserve your judgments, though - I refrained. And I'm almost positive I have the F-word to thank.
I thank my dad for showing me what it means to be a true road-rager, one who does not back down from any opportunity to yell vulgarities so loud they might hear me in Japan. You could say I've become a road rage poet, reciting eloquent and well put-together successions of curses and swear words that might be considered brilliant works of oratory art, were ninety-nine percent of the words used in said phrases not looked down upon in polite society. But when dealing with the interstate and the various and sundry highways and byways that make up a majority of our great road system, you have to remember that we are not, in fact, dealing with polite society... for those minutes or hours that anyone is on the road, they becom harbingers of inconsideration and stupidity, no longer the polite, loving family man or the attentive, warm multi-tasking mother. For just a fleeting time, we all get to be the tough, blunt, and aggressive people that we wish we could be everywhere else. For a great many of us, it's cathartic.
Last of all, the important lesson in of all is this, ladies and gentleman, is that I did not in fact flip the bird to any of the people in these stories. And that is something which I consider an accomplishment.
