Wednesday, May 21, 2014

2231 Slowpokes

When I was growing up I lived in a place that eventually became a retirement community with lots of folks past the age of 70. It made it difficult out on the road as oldsters tend to drive more slowly. When I was a sixteen-year-old, it seemed even worse. I was learning to drive about the same time everyone else on the road was forgetting.

So I guess when I found myself behind a slowpoke the other day I should have been able to contain my road rage better. After all, I'm nearly that age myself now, and should have more empathy and compassion.

I'd come upon a car creeping along the freeway, progressing deliberately at a stately 45 miles-per-hour. At least he was in the right-hand lane. Although his progression wasn't actually that steady, he was mildly swerving from side to side, like his doddering brain was in drift mode.

I say "he" because through his rear window I could see he had on a baseball cap, pulled down low like all old men do. The hat looked oversized, I assumed as a normal attribute of his shrunken cranium. 

"Damn prunehead!" I cursed, the last vestiges of adolescent angst raging out of my own wrinkled lips.

As I swerved around him at the legally tolerated five miles-an-hour over the speed limit, I almost crashed as I realized my mistake. It wasn't an old person at all. It was a teenager, oversized baseball cap slightly off center, looking down at his lap, doing what I can only guess was texting. And, of course, driving slowly and erratically at the same time.

When I was young the old people were driving slow. Now that I'm old, the young people are driving slow. 

And they’re both driving me crazy...

America, ya gotta love it. 

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