I drove to Miami on Tuesday. On the way down, my side of the interstate was backed up in a traffic jam. Because of a wreck on the other side of the freeway. Cuss. I HATE traffic. Turns out their side of the road was backed up for 4 MILES.
Of sitting. And waiting. TO MOVE.
Behind them, another 4 miles later, traffic is backed up AGAIN. Another wreck. For TWO MILES. In other words, once these poor chaps get out of their 2 mile long wait, they have four miles of liberty before they're gridlocked again. In a FOUR MILE LONG WAIT. Unreal. It was so bad they were closing the interstate and redirecting off the exits for detours.
I prayed a sigh of relief that I was on this side. But it was a nervous sigh. One that praised, "Thank you, God, that it's over THERE." But at the same time pleaded, "Please let it be fixed by the time I come back through here. Please?" I might have even crossed my fingers a little as if God barters in the crossed fingers business.
It wasn't fixed. I waded TWO HOURS through those 10 seemingly God-forsaken miles. Two wrecks. Two hours. 10 miles. That's 5 miles an hour on average. Of sitting. Of wasting my life. Of GROWING OLD. And that's not counting the four miles of freedom between the two Pits of Hades. But for simplicity's sake, it's 5 miles an hour. My horse and wagon could've made it to RENO faster. You can WALK 5 miles an hour. You know it's pretty bad when you're asking a hitch-hiker for a lift.
Ah I HATE traffic.
Needles, spiders, and traffic. And Verizon. I'm scared of needles and spiders, thus the hatred. I've explained my feelings on Verizon at great length here. But traffic is a different hatred. It boils your blood. Stands your hair on end, turns it gray, and then causes it to fall out. Makes you create NEW cuss words because the regular ones don't make you feel any better. The only thing that seems like it would help would be to break the law.
And that's why concealed weapons are illegal.
As is having an open container in your car.
I don't have it. Road rage that is. Well I don't have a concealed weapon or open container either, save my cap gun and daytime bottle of Robitussin. It really is Robitussin, Officer. I promise. I have a cough. See...
But I just wonder what it is about traffic that makes me want to die. The potential to be going infinitely faster than 0 mph, is a good start. The nauseating stop-and-go. The headache-inducing, brain-cell-killing, ozone-piercing exhaust. Oh, that's enough to make you vote for Al Gore.
And doesn't it always happen that as soon as you ENTER the traffic jam, the radio chopper flies overhead to inform you that you just entered the traffic jam? "Wreck on I-95 Northbound. Steer clear of this area. Heavy congestion. Gonna be backed up till after lunch tomorrow. Maybe FEMA can bring them some food while they're stranded. I'm looking at a Grand Am that's probably sorry his momma gave birth to him right now. He's bringing up the rear of this 4 mile wait. He should've tuned in to our traffic report. Well back to you, Bubba the Love Sponge..."
I cuss you, Chopper Dave.
My Dad used to do this thing, which he still might, where he would scream curse words at the top of his lungs and pound on whatever was closest, like a steering wheel for instance. I hated that like I hate Verizon until I found myself locked in Traffic Purgatory, stuck in Limbo. It took all I had to keep from cursing at the top of my lungs, from pounding on the steering wheel, and from firing two rounds at Chopper Dave with my cap gun. This all while I'd be chugging my daytime Robitussin.
It wouldn't have been pretty.
But it sure would've felt good.