Tag: Commuting

Apparently, there are certain things you’re not supposed to complain about.

Traffic is one of them.

Sleep is another.

Unfortunately, I currently have complaints about both.

This week, it took me almost two hours to get to work. The first hour was just my normal commute, which already feels like I’ve completed a small task before I’ve actually arrived at the place where I’m supposed to do tasks.

Then I got to my exit.

There had been an accident, and traffic was backed up for what looked like at least a mile. I sat there for almost another hour.

At first, I was remarkably reasonable about it. There’s been an accident. Someone is probably having a much worse morning than I am. Getting irritated isn’t going to make the cars move any faster. I’ll listen to something. It’s fine.

I was fine.

And then I noticed the left-turn lane.

Cars were sailing past all of us who had been sitting there, patiently waiting in the lanes that actually went where we were trying to go. One after another. They’d drive all the way to the front and then force themselves back in.

At first I just noticed them.

Then I started judging them.

Then I started keeping track of them.

Then I could feel the heat rising.

I wanted to honk. Not because honking would accomplish anything. Obviously it wouldn’t. I just wanted them to know.

I SEE YOU.

This was when I noticed something slightly alarming .

I might be turning into my mother.

My mother’s road rage is legendary in our family. This is not classified information. She knows it. Her children know it. I’m reasonably certain a few motorists in Sweden know it.

She’s also usually not wrong. Someone is following too closely? That’s dangerous, you need room to brake. Someone is doing something stupid in traffic? They probably shouldn’t be doing it.

It’s the delivery where Mom and I differ.

I might think, that person is following way too close.

Mom has been known to arrive rather quickly at MOTHERFUCKER.

All of her children tease her about this.

And yet there I was, sitting in Atlanta traffic, watching what felt like the hundredth car cruise past me in the left-turn lane, feeling my internal temperature steadily rising.

Oh no. Is this how it starts?

Fortunately, I remembered First Date Follow Up. It’s a radio segment where someone goes on a first date, is certain it went wonderfully, and then can’t understand why the other person has vanished off the face of the earth. They call the missing date to find out what went wrong.

It is ridiculous.

It is also extremely entertaining.

And, ironically, my mother is the one who told me about it.

So apparently my mother provided both the genetic predisposition toward road rage and the treatment for it.

I turned it on.

Within a few minutes, instead of monitoring the left-turn lane like an unpaid traffic enforcement officer, I was deeply invested in why some stranger wasn’t getting a second date.

The cars were still cutting in. Traffic was still barely moving. Nothing about my actual situation had changed.

But I had stopped caring quite so much.

By the time I got to the office, I was exhausted. Which seems ridiculous, considering I’d spent the previous two hours sitting down. But apparently trying not to lose your shit in traffic takes energy.

So yes, I’m complaining about traffic.

And while I’m breaking the rules, I’ve also been woken up around 3:30 or 4:00 in the morning three nights in a row.

Traffic and sleep.

Two things nobody wants to hear you complain about.

I’ll try to come up with something more interesting next time.

In the meantime, if you see me sitting in traffic, talking angrily to people who cannot hear me that’s just the family gene showing up.

I’m still in the early stages.