Road Rage. Mine.

I find myself easily enraged these days. It started two years ago when not quite half the voters decided they wanted a pussy-grabbing president.

It’s been steadily climbing since as I watched those white boys in Charlottesville and those white men … well, pretty much everywhere.

Then my sexual assault button got triggered when Trump nominated a rapist for the Supreme Court, and the old white men in the Republican Party responded (as they ALWAYS do) by discrediting and blaming the college professor who was assaulted (instead of the frothing-at-the-mouth, anger-management candidate who thought … gasp! …. he might lose his Supreme Court seat when all he tried to do was rape a girl!).

And then the Republicans (as they planned all along) went ahead and seated the rapist as the swing vote because they have an agenda, and … little hint here … it certainly isn’t to protect women’s rights. So why do they care if a rapist is calling the shots?

Yeah. I’m pissed.

So today I was driving my dog to the vet. She’s injured her shoulder, and since she’s already three-legged, she can’t really afford to lose the use of another limb. So we’re doing a series of laser treatments. I was in a bit of a rush, so I was driving with the cruise control set right at the speed limit.

I turned left at a stop sign and hit “resume cruise control” to accelerate back up to the speed limit. I was thinking about a bunch of stuff, so I didn’t notice I was flying up on to a pickup truck, driving at least five miles an hour under the speed limit.

OK, my bad. I shouldn’t have accelerated up to his bumper. But at no point was there any danger of a collision.

When I got close to him, I hit the brakes. I couldn’t pass him because there was an oncoming car, but I stayed close so I could pass once the oncoming vehicle had gone.

He flipped me off and slowed down even more. A lot more. Then he leaned toward the window and mouthed something at me. I can guess what it was.

I could see his contorted, snarling face in his oversized side mirror, and he was exactly the old, entitled, white man who has been harassing and assaulting me and women like me since … well, forever. At least since the patriarchy replaced gentler, matriarchal societies (probably by raping and murdering the women in charge).

My head exploded. I was as angry as I have ever been in my life. All the generalized anxiety and fear and anger resulting from the last few years distilled into a laser aimed directly at one old white guy.

When the oncoming vehicle passed us, I didn’t pass him. I just sat on his bumper. Close enough to make him nervous, but far enough back that I could stop.

A quarter of a mile down the road, we stopped at a stop sign. He turned on his right turn signal and turned. So did I.

In all fairness, that’s where I was going. I didn’t turn just to harass him. In fact, I would’ve gone a different route if there had been an option that wasn’t several miles out of the way.

But of course he didn’t know that. All he knew was that I turned right and stayed on his tail.

He began driving more and more slowly. I had several opportunities to pass, but I didn’t take them.

I no longer wanted to pass him. I was no longer focused on getting to the vet’s office quickly. All I wanted to do was make it clear to one white guy that THIS woman was NOT going to be his victim. Not today.

(Also, in my defense, I wasn’t about to pass and drive in front of an enraged man who clearly has an anger management problem; I’m much safer behind them.)

I just stayed right there on his bumper.

OK, I didn’t just stay on his bumper.

I also took pictures that showed both the speed at which he was driving (as low as twenty mph in a fifty-mph zone) and his license plate number.

At some point, I wasn’t angry anymore. I could tell he was getting scared—starting to feel the kind of anxiety women feel ALL THE TIME when old white guys harass them on the road—and to tell the truth, that felt kinda good.

I’m ashamed of that. Especially since I can still feel it. Hours later, I can still feel the power I got from reversing the roles and making the bully the victim.

So I stayed right behind him. Close enough to make him nervous, but far enough back that I could stop.

Ask me how I know I was far enough back to know I could stop.

Go ahead … ask!

I know because several times he suddenly slammed on his brakes, apparently trying to make me rear-end him.

And I didn’t. I didn’t even come close. You can be darn close to someone’s bumper at twenty mph and still have plenty of time to stop. Especially if you’re watching him closely because you know he’s going to try it.

Eventually he pulled over a little—not as far as the shoulder, of course, just over to the edge of the lane—and tried to wave me around.

I might have gone—it’s the sort of thing a thoughtful driver will do, after all: move over and let you pass so he doesn’t slow you down—but just as I considered it, his gesture turned into a one-fingered wave.

Nope. No way was I going to pass him.

I followed him down the road, neither of us ever getting up to thirty mph, until I reached my turnoff to the vet. I turned at the last minute without signaling.

I watched to see if he would turn around and come back to pick a fight with me, but he didn’t. He probably went down the road feeling the same relief I always feel when the bully finally gets tired of frightening me and leaves.

It makes me a little sad though to think that this is what I have become.

Because he was an old white guy in a pickup truck with American flag stickers, I went from zero to enraged in five mph.

Imagine what I might have done if he had had MAGA stickers!

 

Tags: road rage