This past spring, a friend of mine announced on Facebook that she was giving up road rage for Lent. At first that hit me as very funny. Then I faced the truth.
Road rage is alive and well in my Honda Pilot.
Running errands this morning I felt as if I got behind every “grandma and grandpa” out tooling around in their little novas. And I don’t mean that I was forced to drive the speed limit, which, at times, does make me spastic. Oh no. These people were going 15 to 20 in 45 mph zones. The type of creeping along that makes me feel as if the blood vessels in my neck are going to explode. Quentin Tarantino style.
How did I get this way? Is it from not getting enough ice cream as a child? Doubtful. From looking in the mirror, I’ve certainly had my share of ice cream, and then some.
It is because I am usually screeching into most parking spaces, holding my breath as I dash up the steps to yet another appointment for which I am two to three minutes late.
Because I am speeding before I even get into the car.
I am not centered. I have let go of my daily scriptures. My prayer. My special time for me and God. I’m trying to go it alone. And so I zoom along, thinking I am on my own, doing okay, until I come upon some slow driver who doesn’t realize that he needs to speed up. Or does he?
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