It’s lunchtime, and as is par for the course as far as my ability to have an actual plan of attack for anything, I’ve waited to go foraging for food well beyond the limitations of my body’s seemingly ample reserves. My stomach’s given up on the gentle growling reminders and moved straight to full on revolt that my co-workers can hear in the next room (“Did someone just hear a dog bark?”). This turns my already prickly personality into a full-fledged briar patch.
I snatch up my keys and wallet off my desk, and announce to the room that I am about to save everyone’s life by going to find something to eat. You can thank me later.
Out into the Gilead Road traffic I venture, and the only thing between me and the hyper-efficient drive-through lane at Wendy’s (that is not a joke, those folks are on their A-game every dang day) is the lone left turn lane at Statesville Road. Oh, that and the driver in front of me whose apparent sole purpose in life is to impede the progress of others, and she’s doing a bang-up job of it.
Why is it, that on any given day when stopped in a line of traffic at a red light around here, there’s always some dolt in front of you who will not pull all the way up to the car in front of her? All you need is about another foot or so of clearance to pull into the aforementioned EMPTY left-turn lane with the bright green left turn arrow beckoning NO ONE through the intersection, but the clod in front of you won’t acknowledge that, in spite of how her mommy probably coddled her into believing, she is not the only person on the planet.
It would be one thing if you could see that she had her face buried in her phone screen, panicked at the thought that if she didn’t check her InstaTwitBook app at that very moment, she might miss which point on the compass some vacuous Hollywood sponge decided to name her child (I hear South-South East hasn’t been taken yet, Kim).
But no, she’s just sitting there, oblivious to the fact that she is nothing more than a pimple on the posterior of progress by not even attempting to close that precious gap of asphalt — like any self-aware, non-mouth breathing responsible driver would.
It’s enough to make you want to throw a rock — okay, really, a shoe — at someone. Good thing more than a few of mine don’t have laces.