Road Rage

On my way to work, I cross the road outside my apartment to get to the roundabout in the middle. I see a car just turning into the street, about a block away.

Suddenly, the car is speeding towards me. Just as I barely step onto the roundabout, the car whizzes by me, nearly hitting me. And then, the female driver honks rudely at me, as if I'm the one who has done something wrong.

My knee-jerk reaction is to throw up my left hand into the air and flip off the driver while muttering, "F*ck you!" Not the most grown-up response, but it's not even 9am, I haven’t had any caffeine yet, and I'm feeling a tad cranky.

I don't actually expect the driver to see me flip her off, as she is driving so fast. But she does. She slams on the breaks, tires screeching, and stops her car in the middle of the road. She sticks her head out the window, looking at me with contempt. She yells, "F*ck OFF, b*tch!"

I am now livid. I say, "Um, no. F*CK. YOU!" To emphasise my words, I use my left middle finger for the F*CK and my right middle finger for the YOU. Yes, I'm employing the incredibly immature but highly satisfying double-bird. I feel my face growing hot and red in anger, thinking, "Who does this stupid cow think she is? She speeds down a quiet residential street, nearly runs me over, when clearly I was walking across the road way before she ever got to the roundabout, and then she has the nerve to honk at me, as though I'm the one with a problem?"

The driver's nostrils flare and I realise she is probably contemplating getting out of the car to come after me. Usually the body has a fight or flight response, but I am experiencing both. With all that adrenaline flowing, part of me would really like to introduce this wench to the pointy end of my umbrella. Then the practical part of me kicks in and remembers "Oh yeah! I'm fairly puny, I have never been in a real physical fight in my entire life, and I am quite possibly the most un-intimidating person on the planet, over the age of 7!"

I am still standing there on the roundabout, my double-bird still hovering in the air like some sort of 'road rage' bat signal, but after shooting She Who Must Not Be Named another dirty look, I turn away and walk down the street.

For the next hour I fume and fantasise about what I wished I'd said (something sassy, but intelligent) or what I would have said to that moron if she had actually gotten out of her car. I give myself the best lines, lines which would make people in an audience pump their fists in the air and say, "Hell, yeah! She told her!" if they were watching this scene unfold in a movie theatre. It is safe to say the language would not be suitable for a family film.

I also become alarmed at how quickly I changed from a calm and sane person into a complete nutjob wanting to kick some stranger's butt into oblivion. How can two people who don’t even know each other work up that much hatred in a matter of moments? So, my name is Lori and I have road rage. The adult inside of me knows I could have handled myself in a much more dignified manner, but my inner-child cannot deny it - that double-bird felt damn good.