Along the way, I've run into a disturbing cast of characters:
CRAZY LADY
Last summer, Crazy Lady turned left on a red light in Brighton Center, ripped a chunk off my minivan, and when I went to pull over, took both hands off the wheel, swerved all over the road, screamed, and became a scene from the Exorcist. When I got ahold of the police and finally felt safe pulling over, she proceeded to tell me that it was my fault, because her husband was going to beat her.
OLD WHITE CONVERTIBLE GUY
Last spring, I lived on a pretty small street in Brookline. However, despite it being - for all intents and purposes - a small, residential street, it is actually a long street that turns into Kelton, Warren, Sparhawk, and eventually Arlington Street before merging with Faneuil on the Brighton/Watertown border. Translation: If you have any experience driving in this area, you know that Winchester/Kelton/Warren/Sparhawk/Arlington street is one of the BEST cut throughs to avoid any number of LOS (Large, Obnoxious Streets) crawling with O-Bugs (Obnoxious BU Undergrads). Enter Old White Convertible Guy.
This man had impeccable timing, and tended to drive by exactly as I was crossing the street to my apartment.
SIDENOTE: In Brookline, there is no overnight street parking. In a town like Belmont, with an abundance of driveways, this is not a problem. In Brookline, it means that you pay people every month to rent a spot in their driveways/front yards/etc. Thus, I parked across the street.
This is what he would yell:
YOU STUPID C*NT, GO TO THE G*DDAMN CROSSWALK TO CROSS THE STREET! HOW F*CKING STUPID ARE YOU?
I understand people yelling things like that in big intersections. Hell, I switched from the Brookline to the Allston CVS because I was tired of being given the finger by rich mommies jaywalking across Harvard Street with their toddlers. I never yell obscenities out the window, however. I'd like to say it's because I'm a more honorable person, but honestly, it's because I have this irrational fear that one of my students will for some reason be within earshot and will yell, "TO THINK YOU KICKED ME OUT OF CLASS FOR DROPPING F-BOMBS. FOR SHAME MISS!"
In any event, this intersection... is not a big intersections. This intersection is two lanes, and on a residential street. There are no crosswalks. If I wanted to use a crosswalk, I would have to walk back to Beacon. See below:
So you see the absurdity. However, I never got a chance to explain this to him, because he always drove off at 100 mph.
These are two of many disturbing characters I've encountered along with the subsequent rage that bubbles up inside after our run-ins. But, fair readers, I've found the cure.
THE CURE FOR ROAD RAGE
Do you remember those old school Nickelodeon game shows from the early 90s? They contained something wonderful: Green slime. I found the history the the green slime on Wikipedia, but I'm entirely too lazy to read it, so I'm going to assume that it started with one show, and caught on due to its awesomeness. If I'm wrong, sue me.
THIS IS THE CURE.
Picture the scene: You're driving. You're probably running a little bit late, or worse: you're not quite late, but you're on the borderline, so that one extended red light, LTDTUWDR (Left turning douche taking up whole damn road), or YLNT (Yellow light not taken) could bump you into lateville. I hate that feeling. I'd rather just be late than hovering in the possibility. But anyway, this is the scene. I'm going to use an example of how it might happen for me: Old White Convertible Guy expands his horizons to Storrow Drive. I'm on the Tobin Bridge, and he cuts me off right before the 4th street exit, the one closest to my school. I am forced to continue to the Chelsea HS exit, and backtrack. I will be late.
Normally, this would be tragic. I would scream, yell things like WHAT THE FUDGE, SHUT THE FRONT DOOR, etc (can't have my students overhearing me). But today is different, because I have figured out the cure to road rage. I've also figured out the longest-winded way to explain this cure to you, but if you're still reading, you love me enough to deal with my rambling.
Instead of my usual meltdown, I smile. Not a little smile, but a wide smile, ear-to-ear. I giggle first, then burst out into full-fledged laughter. As I pass him, I wave, grin, and blow him a kiss. He looks at me, shocked, because his plan to ruin me has failed, and he has no idea why.
Why am I smiling? Although he's clean, wearing a white-collared shirt, in a white car, that's not what I see. At the exact moment I was about to burst into road rage, I pictured a huge bucket turning upside-down, dumping gallons and gallons of old school Nickelodeon green slime on him.
Now it won't work if that's all you picture. You have to use your imagination. What, really, would it look like if green slime was dumped on an angry old man in a white convertible
A convertible has no top. There is no barrier between the sky and the slime, so it pours right in. It slides over the leather seats, slides down the windshield (he turns on his wipers), and seeps into the crack that holds the canvas top, so even if he tries to put the top back up, it will be slimy on both slides. He has glasses, in my vision, so in the midst of all this, he's stopping to wipe slime off the lenses with his fingers. It's in his ears, his nose, and sliding down his white-collared shirt. His feet slip on the pedals because it's in the bottom of the car by now. It covers the seatbelts, the stick shift, the CD player, and his latte. It ruins his issue of Douchebag Weekly in the front seat (Oh no, what will he do for guidance?). He will panic, wondering if it is somehow radioactive, and then panic some more when he realizes he didn't get any kind of service contract on his car because he thought the world revolved around him. He will pull over, covered in slime, and bystanders will take pictures with their phones and post them on the internet. He will try to use his phone, but it will not work, due to slime damage. He will sit in his car, wondering if the brunette in the RAV-4 is some sort of sorceress who can snap her fingers and bring green slime on people. He will remember all the times he cussed me out unnecessarily, and he will. be. sorry.
I understand that none of that will happen. But here's what WILL happen: As a result of this visualization exercise, I walk into work smiling ear-to-ear. I tell everyone about my breakthrough, and they marvel at my brilliance, while laughing internally at the kooky writing teacher, but still debating trying this strategy themselves. I will prepare for an hour or so, then go to my first class, and even though my 1st period 8th graders are especially negative, they will be drawn into my infectious positive attitude, and when I explain why I'm smiling, they will all tell me of times they've illegally driven automobiles, and we will laugh, and I will try not to worry about that. They will write. Win.
So try it, I dare you.
1 comment:
made my week :0)
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