Nowhere Fast, Part 1

This afternoon I was in the Honda hauling ass, as is my wont, across town on my way from the dog park to school pickup. While any any GPS would probably assess this particular trip at about 10 minutes, due to the mind-boggling time-warp obstacles of suburban driving, it can frequently take 20. So I leave the dog run with a 12-minute window and then ride my fellow motorists like a bat out of hell to make my deadline–I like to think of it as a tough-love invitation to share my reality, one in which people actually drive the speed limit or slightly above it; do not slow down when approaching a green light as if longing for it to turn red again; realize that here on Planet Earth you can make a right turn on a red light unless explicitly notified otherwise; and do not need to wait until there is absolutely no sign of a motor vehicle coming from any direction on the horizon before attempting to make a left turn.

Needless to say, this journey is much like life itself: your intentions are true, your understanding of the world and your place in it seem copacetic and you are on your way to a straightforward destination, and yet the road is strewn with those whose sole purpose in life is to fuck up your program. To wit, they are:

1. The School Crossing Guard: Yes, s/he keeps our kids safe and for that we’re grateful. On the other hand, s/he’s a sadist who clearly relishes the miraculous opportunity to wield the type of power previously experienced only in the world of online gaming. Watch as a line of cars–all on their way to pick up their own children, mind you–piles up and stretches on for blocks as s/he holds them up waiting for every last child to meander out of the school, along the sidewalk, wait for their friends, and finally cross the street.

2. The Church Lady/Guy: The general rule of thumb here is the more religious bumper stickers on the car, the less hope you have of actually reaching your destination. Today’s journey featured a careworn-looking station wagon abruptly pulling out of a parallel parking spot to interrupt my trajectory . “Jesus!” I swore, slamming on the brakes. It was then I noticed that the bumper of the car–which  immediately decelerated to approximately 10 m.p.h.–was responding in kind. JESUS! it proclaimed, not once but at least 6 times in overlapping bumperstickers. No gesture towards the variety of religious-nut copy I’ve grown familiar with (such as the one advising me to tell my problems how big god is, or “Maranatha!,” my personal favorite because it’s so obtuse and nonsensical and sounds like a old-school candy bar): just 6 or 7 overlapping Jesuses. I knew I was doomed and immediately reached for my phone to ask the BFF to hold on to my kids, as I would be arriving late for pickup.

3. The Lawn-Service Truck: So high, you can’t get over it…so wide, you can’t get around it…when these badboys lumber on out in front of you hauling their massive trailer of landscaping equipment you can just throw in the towel. They are not in a hurry to get to their next gig; you wouldn’t be either if you made what they’re making. Even if they were, they’re hauling an Olympic village worth of equipment and the small army of crack professionals to run it in a truck that looks like 1960s Soviet aircraft.

Oh I know: this is suburbia, not the Autobahn, and I need to adjust my expectations accordingly. Believe me, I’ve tried the whole swim-with-the-current thing but the speed demon who dwells in my heart refuses to be so easily exorcised. Which is why I prefer running, the one area of my life where I can just go as hardcore as I want, as fast as I possibly can, and nobody can stop me. Only problem is, “wherever you go, there you are.” Stay tuned for Nowhere Fast, Part 2…