However, I have done rather significant drives on my own. Yesterday, I drove 9 hours from family in Ohio down to North Carolina, accompanied by a carefully constructed playlist, snacks, coffee, and a dramatized, audible rendition of The Two Towers. This was part two of my journey; Wednesday, after my last exam, I packed the car and drove 5 hours from Michigan to Ohio. Needless to say (but I'll say it anyway), my bum was not too excited to be in the driver's seat again. But I had the best light at the end of the tunnel: home.
* * *
I pulled off the last highway, Peabody, my trusted-yet-despised GPS chirping at me to turn right, and then left. I, the ever faith Igor to her Frankenstein, obeyed. I turned right, scooting into the left turn lane.
But I was too slow. The light turned yellow, and not being one to tempt fate (or traffic cameras), I reluctantly stopped at the thick white line. It was frustrating: so close, yet so far away. Why couldn't the 70 mph speed limit and lack of traffic signals extend all the way to my driveway? I watched as Peabody's ETA crept up a whole minute. Another minute dividing me from home.
Behind me, a woman honked her horn. I looked in the rearview mirror to see her gesticulate at me. She was dressed in business attire, driving a nice car. I gesticulated back through the mirror. "What do you want me to do, b****?" I asked angrily. Usually, this question is directed towards Peabody. I'm sure she was relieved to have the cursing targeted elsewhere.
My brows were furrowed, my lip curled, my shoulders tensed nigh to my ears. The road-rage beast, already stirring from lack of sleep, food, and patience, was awake.
Maybe, just maybe, the woman behind me is a nice person. Maybe she had someplace to be. But after I've been driving for two days after a very stressful exam week, you don't get the benefit of the doubt. You get called naughty names.
You won't like it when I'm angry.
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