At 8:00 AM, I’m gripping the wheel with one hand, holding the top of my coffee with the other; I’m weaving through morning traffic.
Its not that I’m driving to fast but there are too many potholes for the posted speed limit, but I can’t slow down.
My heart races in a panic as I tap the brakes coming up on a drive who clearly can not read the speed limit. Maybe it is a good thing that he is making me slow down but as I pass him, I see he is chatting on his cell. I hate him for that. I hate that he is talking on his phone and not driving.
He just sees an angry mini van mom driving. That is not me though. The old me dies a little every time I turn the key to that – thing. In my mind, I’m driving something small, sleek; foreign.
My drive use to be shorter, less defensive, less angry but now it’s a race. A race to be on time, a race to get ahead of the other guy, a race to make it to the next red light, a race that is daily. At 8:00 AM.