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I can now add road rage to the list of things I’m susceptible to on a Friday after a long week of work. (Other things that belong to that list are somnambulism, pituitary gland problems, and the necessity for caffeine and/or a bathroom). I’ve never experienced the emotion before, and my dashboard has never quite experienced my fists that way before.
I grew up in a small town. My definition of traffic was if two or more horses were sauntering next to the road. I now commute to work everyday in a big city. I know what traffic is, but I truly have little to complain about. I am fortunate enough to have found a back road that allows me to get to and from work in about fifteen to thirty minutes each time. So compared to those that drive an hour or more to work, I have the good life.
This good life wasn ’t so good last Friday. My first glimpse into the darkness of my own soul (for I would eventually fall into my own Seven Circles of Hell as this escapade expanded) occurred when I noticed the immense traffic standstill at the intersection I needed to turn from. Upon finally seeing the lights that were not working correctly (they were flashing red), I decided to turn around. I figured the other major thoroughfare to my home would still be congested, but not as insanely as this one was. Error #1.
As I approached the entrance ramp for this alternative route, an officer was placing neon pylons across the entry lane. I started to feel the heat from my own face. My poor dashboard started to feel the beginning punches of what would almost become a fifteen round fight. I couldn’t understand what this officer was doing. If I would have been just a few minutes earlier I could have gotten by, then again, there may have been a toxic spill and I could be typing with tentacles instead of fingers. It could always be worse.
But I thought this was horrible. With a radiator leaking and the temperature gauge dancing better than I can, I did not want to spend an absurd amount of time in traffic. I got onto that major highway, in the exact opposite way I had intended to go. This highway would take me home, but in a very, very circuitous route.
I arrived home an hour after leaving work, madder than a caged bulldog in heat.
I was frustrated during my entire trip, and my dashboard has the scars to prove it.
My frustrations doubled upon themselves because I alone was responsible for what happened. Had I waited at the first traffic light, I would have been home a lot earlier.
We are bound to be frustrated when we don’t wait on God.
We are bound to be even more frustrated when we make U-turns and return to the places that we’ve already been.
You will eventually get home, but the ride won’t be as fun and enjoyable as it could have been.