I used to be such a carefree child with impeccable anger management skills, with no reason to be upset in the first place. If something did bother me, I'd pout for three seconds then grab a Pop-Tart and flip on PBS Kids. This complete inability to be annoyed by my surroundings, or the human race as a whole, came to an abrupt stop as soon as I got my driver's license. And now I present, with ease, the three driving habits that make me want to crash my 2000 Chrysler Cirrus into the nearest rocky ravine.
Turn Signals
These babies used to be a no-brainer. And while they're still a mandatory feature in every vehicle since the Model T, a rumor must've spread that turn signals are a thing of the past. Antiquated, unnecessary. And everyone's right, of course. Why must you endure the four to six seconds of incessant clicking? For what reason does one need to flick his or her fingers in that silly 15-degree arc motion?
So I know where you are going.
I swear, more often that not, I find myself trying to sense where drivers are traveling. Defensive driving is the new standard. It's not uncommon for a car in front of you to suddenly slow to a near stop, scan their surroundings and - at their leisure - veer off in an entirely new direction. All without a glance in the rearview or an apologetic wave out the window. Thanks, ma'am... I'll just narrowly avoid crushing your bumper and then idle here in the middle of the road while you decide which path you'd like to take in life. The world is your oyster. I just wish you'd printed out some MapQuest... done a dry run .... something.
Slow Drivers
This one makes me grip the wheel and yell out loud in the hopes that the universe - or, in the best scenario, the slow driver himself - will hear my cries for help. I understand basic rules of the road. I get that drag racing is illegal and dangerous. I recognize the importance of crosswalks and the safety of other drivers. Blah blah blah. That doesn't mean that on a one-lane road - or, even more infuriating, the passing lane of a major highway - Granny Smith is allowed to coast at 15 mph. It sounds egocentric, but I've got places to be, lady. If you're 10 mph under the posted limit, I've got beef with you. And most often, this kind of slow-motion car chase is happening because of some kind of precipitation. All of a sudden everyone's Chicken Little and the sky is falling. In the wise words of Miranda Priestly, "By all means move at a glacial pace. You know how that thrills me." Worst yet are people taking half an hour to make a right turn. There is no one in your path, sir. Giving it a little extra gas will not send you careening into that hydrangea bush. You're making me and everyone behind me tap the brakes so you can ease gently into that mammoth empty parking lot.
Merging
This one comes down to good ol' fashioned chivalry.... or lack thereof. When two lanes begin to merge into one, everyone's arms lock up, white knuckles gripping the wheel, as panic strikes the hearts of every driver involved. Instead of everyone looking out for their neighbor, tunnel vision sets in and suddenly it's a game of "How far a distance can I get my car in the shortest amount of time?" The principle of merging is selflessness - allowing at least one or two vehicles around you to transition into your lane - but it's a concept lost on most. So invariably there's stop-and-go gridlock for several miles while everyone jockeys for position. And I just sit there waving people in like a crossing guard, sighing with impatience and listening to nearly half my iPod's library. Oh, the humanity.
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