Road Rage

My mother drives very slowly everywhere she goes.  If the speed limit is seventy-five, she complains that it is just ridiculous that anybody drives that fast and steadily maintains her fifty-five mile-per-hour pace, often resulting in many honks of horns from angry drivers who get stuck behind her.  She doesn’t seem to notice them.

When I am driving and get stuck behind somebody slow, I just pretend the person in front of me is my mother and I am calmed.

When Kenny gets behind the wheel, his anger level immediately rises in anticipation of slow and reckless drivers that he might happen upon.  He has absolutely no patience. 

When we were driving down a gravel road earlier this week, we came upon a clunked-out old truck that was going about forty miles per hour.  Kenny began with the cursing, then waved his middle finger a couple times, then raised his voice, then stuck his head out the window and yelled for them to drive faster.  I thought now would be a good time to say, “What if that was my mom?”  Just then, we reached the top of the hill and Kenny saw that he could pass the truck.  As he did, we both looked toward the driver.  He was probably in his sixties, barely hanging on to the last two teeth in his mouth, face sunk in from years of…drinking?  Drugs?  Something.  He looked like a kooky old bastard.

Kenny said, “If that was your mom, I’d tell her to go to the dentist.”

I don’t think he understood the point I was trying to make.