November 18, 2007
I was driving home from an appointment this afternoon on I-30W through Dallas. James was at a friend's house, I was a few minutes late to pick him up, and traffic was heavy. Just as things began to move, a minivan full of elderly women merged in front of me and proceeded to crawl along at 38 miles per hour.
As nice as they seemed, I sincerely didn't want to find myself sitting in their third row of seats, so I held my breath and mashed on the breaks. Luckily, I didn't rear end them, and now that I was only two inches behind their rear bumper, I was finally able to read that darned bumper sticker--how convenient.
It said: I'M GLAD TO BE PRESBYTERIAN, and it featured a lovely graphic of a smiling goldfish.
Well great. I couldn't very well beep and curse and rage at a car full of elderly Presbyterians. Elderly vegetarians? Maybe. Super old magicians? Sure. But aged Presbyterian ladies? Certainly not.
So in the comfort and privacy of my own Toyota wagon I screamed, "I'M GLAD YOU'RE PRESBYTERIAN, TOO! BUT LEARN HOW TO DRIVE THAT DAMN BIG-RIG OF YOURS!"
And then, as I passed them on the right, I smiled and waved as kindly as I possibly could. If there was a universal hand signal for Presbyterianism, I totally would have flashed it. But unfortunately, there's not.
As soon as they were out of sight, which took--oh--about one seventh of a second considering their speed, I honked, I cursed, and I raged. At no one at all. It felt fantastic.
Ohmicrap. I need a vacation.