I live for freeway traffic.
I wake up every morning secure in the knowledge that the new day will soon
be filled with blaring horns, overheated engines, lost tempers, suffocating
tailgaters, and the like. I can't help but smile. After all, I'm a
Californian--Southern Californian to be exact--and it is my duty as such to
proudly be a dedicated member of the Golden State's most cherished tradition:
Words cannot begin to describe the feeling one gets as they idly sit in an
ever-growing line of cars on a freeway entrance ramp. Nor can mere words
symbolize the intense emotions that build in each individual in line as they
watch the signal light allow only one car at a time enter the freeway.
Suddenly, with complete strangers, a person is able to release the
anxieties and pressures that are so often contained within the home. Through
various four-letter words and hand gestures, drivers can share with one another
the stress that would otherwise remain bottled up inside. It's almost as if
they are there, in the jam-packed procession of automobiles, to counsel each
other. To share a mutual understanding of the trials and tribulations this
life has to offer. Why pay a psychiatrist's bill when all it takes is a
near-empty tank of gas and a slow-moving elderly person in the passing lane to
get to the root of one's emotional isolation? Instead, just pass Grandpa
Snail, flip him off, and enjoy what the rest of the day has in store.
Tell me, is there any twelve-step program as simple as this?
I must depart now; the clock on the wall says it is nearly 5:00 P.M., and I
don't want to be late for my rush hour support group. Perhaps you could join
us? The more the merrier, we always say!